Sunsets and Skylines
by Feel the Steel
Summary: Trevor/OC. They have changed, their lives taking a downward spiral both falling faster than a Boeing with broken wings, each on their individual paths to self-destruction, a rapid descent that will eventually leave little more than the black boxes amongst the twisted, smouldering wreckage.
1. Last Night

He has been having a recurring dream, the same dream every night for almost a decade and regardless of how many times he may experience it, often he is wholly convinced that it is indeed real. The year is nineteen ninety-nine, early February and he is standing alone in the bar on the evening he first met her lethargically nursing a glass of whisky whilst feigning some level of interest in the on-going celebrations nearby. The bar in the narrow backstreets of Ludendorff is poorly lit and there is the distinct stench of stale cigarette smoke and urine. The room is warm and the thin material of his shirt clings to his slight torso like a second skin forcing him to tug at the sweat and alcohol soaked fabric irritably. Deafeningly loud live music played by an amateur band blares in his ears and the pounding bass that all but drowns out the scratchy vocals reverberates throughout his entire body until he feels the beat in his very bones. The air is thick and heavy with smoke which lingers two feet above the sticky wooden floors in long silver lines, and his eyes fall on her. Standing by the bar she is watching him with a lopsided smile in which one corner of her lip tilts up at a sharp angle causing a small dimple to form over her upper lip; it is a look which very much implies that she knows something he does not. Looking at her, he sees all over again that she is attractive in a way that may go unnoticed by many with fair skin, high cheekbones and a long hooked nose. Barely a day over twenty and excessively slim in a way that most young girls are with pale blonde hair that skims her shoulders in unruly waves. Her face is long with a defined jaw line, her eyebrows sharp and dark giving her an almost aquiline appearance.

She looks back at him for a second longer and then offers him a brief second look, and now she is purposefully striding towards him shakily sidestepping a small group of young drunks waiting for the club upstairs to open its doors in towering stilettos. In his dream he tells himself that he has been given a chance to stop this, that someone somehow has offered him a second chance to put things straight. Now he has the opportunity to put a stop to the disastrous chain of events he will inflict upon her before they can begin.

But he does not. Whether it is selfishness or simple stupidity he does not know. She stops in front of him and speaks and he smiles and replies guardedly. In his dreams he does not fully understand what words are exchanged between them, their words are little more than a haze their meaning lost after all these years but he knows that they are amusing as she throws her head back and laughs at something he has said, and then he also laughs though he remains on guard repeatedly checking his surroundings a habit that he has learned after years of crime. Even now he adores her laugh and the way in which he can see all of her straight white teeth when she does.

After several drinks, whisky with no ice and no mixer for both of them a fact which rather impresses him, the conversation flows easily back and forth and as he looks on he cannot help but to feel rather helpless, something that he does not like in the least, as he knows first-hand what is to happen to this young man and woman. Ultimately he feels powerless.

By now she will have introduced herself as Kathy.

"I'm Kathy with a K."

"What other way would you spell it?" He snaps thinking that she must be rather stupid.

She is nineteen, ten years his junior and carrying a reasonably convincing fake ID in order to go out drinking with her older friends a group of twenty-something long-haired degenerates who look to be severely lacking in personal hygiene. He does not introduce himself immediately.

They continue to drink tossing back one glass after another and, feeling significantly more relaxed he introduces himself to the chatty girl.

"I'm Trevor."

She is quick to reply. "Would you like to dance, Trevor?" Her speech is slurred and she mispronounces his name and her eyes don't quite focus on him, however he agrees and allows her to lead him onto the small, crowded dance floor where he finds it almost compulsory to slip his arms around her waist as they move together. His past record has been limited solely to strippers and prostitutes when he needs a thrill, however he has had enough to drink that he does not feel awkward about the closeness to a woman.

Kathy does not object to their closeness, but rather she seems to relish it. One of her long hands, pianist's hands he thinks, is tangled in his thinning dark hair that is streaked with grey and brushes his collar uncomfortably reminding him that it has been some time since he has had a haircut. Not that he has had the time as of late. Her other hand runs down his side glancing over his protruding pelvic bone, it has been some time since he has had a decent meal, and across the front of his ill-fitting jeans and, as her fingers apply a slight pressure, he inhales sharply. Twenty-nine years old with greying and receding hair and deep scars on his cheeks and forehead he could easily pass for someone ten years his senior and so he is unaccustomed to any positive attention from women, not that the sideways glances or the occasional sneers particularly bother him.

Her hands continue to roam his body running down his hip and over the back of his jeans her nimble fingers sliding into the torn back pocket. He responds by pressing himself harder against her until his groin pushes against her stomach and, watching this unfold he knows that as he does so he is debating on whether or not he should kiss her. From the way in which her hands are exploring his body she certainly wants him to. Before he is able to however, the younger woman leans up and kisses him zealously, their lips and teeth clash painfully but they do not break apart as in a way this fleeting pain adds to the fervency of their first kiss.

They pause and she looks up at him and flicks a strand of silver-blonde hair from her turquoise eyes which reflect the little light there is. She is smiling now, not that vague lopsided smile that had first attracted his attention but rather a wide candid smile. This close he is able to make out a small line of freckles crossing the bridge of her nose.

Caution thrown to the wind she kisses him again, this time however, the kiss is much more ardent and passionate. She nips lightly at his lower lip catching the skin softly between her teeth whilst her hands resume where they had left off in exploring every inch of his body.

When the bar calls for last orders at midnight, despite her age he is quick to invite her back to his home, after all it has been some time since he has been with a woman who was interested in him rather than the pay check at the end of it. Expecting her to nervously decline the inebriated younger woman accepts and, lighting a cigarette, she follows him home stopping once only to push him up against the front door of a convenience store and slip one hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. Despite greatly enjoying the attention he pushes her away and orders her to wait until they arrive at his home.

Home is not much. It is a worn out trailer on the outskirts of the town with no neighbours, no streetlights and no class, but, he frequently reminds himself, it will make his, Brad and Michael's big payday that much sweeter when it comes along.

The next morning when he wakes on the mattress on the floor his head pounding, he discovers that he is alone. He is naked, his clothes lying scattered carelessly across the floor of his trailer and in his dream he is racking his brain to recall what had taken place after the pair had arrived. They had drunkenly slept together, that much he knew. Little remained of blonde and their night spent together, with the few remnants being a trail of angry purple bite marks on his neck, chest and hips and a pair of tan tights with a large hole on the thigh from when he had rather over-enthusiastically tried to remove her clothing as they stumbled drunkenly into the trailer.

On the floor by his makeshift bed, propped up against an empty bottle of beer is a small sheet of plain white notepaper. Moving closer, he picks it up and holds it close to read,

'_Thanks for a great night,  
See you again,  
Kathy D.  
xxx'_

At the end of the note she has included her cell phone number. Trevor Philips almost smiles as he scrunches the note into a ball and tosses it onto the floor. If only, he thinks in his dreams, he had known that he wouldn't be seeing the last of her.


	2. Time Bomb

On the thirteenth of May two thousand and four in the early hours of a fog laden Friday of all things, twenty-four year old Kathryn Ramona Philips' life is turned upside down.

Once the breakfast dishes are washed and dried and neatly put away in their respective places her husband of four years wordlessly presents her with a rectangular box and sits back in his seat to await her much anticipated reaction. The box is long and slim, perhaps five inches by two and is trimly decorated in smooth cream wrapping paper that is cool to the touch with a silken gold ribbon tied in an elegant bow in the centre –evidently the work of a store clerk. Naturally, she is surprised by the gesture, he is not at all prone to giving gifts; in fact, she has recently celebrated her birthday and received little more than a hastily bought thin bouquet of wilting carnations from the gas station next door complete with a dollar price tag.

Kathryn turns the box around in her hands savouring this curious display of affection before pulling keenly at the ribbon which falls away easily. The pale wrapping paper matches her flaxen hair and from the opposite side of the kitchen table which wobbles uncertainly with each breath and slight movement Trevor's dark blue eyes study her carefully.

Picking at the edges where the paper overlaps with one long fingernail the heavy wrapping paper tears and hurriedly she peels the remainder away and tosses it carelessly onto the table in order to unveil a plain black box with the words _Vangelico_ embossed in gold script in the centre. The words momentarily take the young woman's breath away; the company operates in Vinewood, San Andreas and even the simplest pieces of jewellery cost several hundred dollars a far cry from her twenty dollar engagement and wedding rings bought on a whim whilst on vacation in Las Venturas.

She flips the somewhat stiff lid and stares down in uninhibited admiration at a slender white gold eternity ring set with five large finely cut diamonds not at all like the cheap gemstone in the centre of her solitaire engagement ring. The ring is nestled comfortably amongst a sea of fine silk the pale blue of a robin's egg and in the early morning sunlight the jewellery is stunning.

"What d'you think?" He sounds impatient.

Grudgingly, Kathy tears her eyes from the ring and looks at him; this time however she really looks at him. Despite several years of marriage –they had married young when Kathryn herself was only twenty after a whirlwind romance and a split second decision on their first vacation together and in hindsight it may well have been ridiculous to have gotten married a mere six weeks into their relationship but at no point has the young woman ever so much as doubted her decision- she would have been lying if she had said that she recognises the man seated before her. He is astoundingly tall and a willowy frame gives the illusion of extra height though his bad posture the result of a lifelong awkwardness regarding his height takes several inches off him. He has an enviably clear complexion sadly married by countless angry pink scars and it is this distinguishable feature coupled with the thick moustache grown in recent weeks that ages him severely; he is only thirty-four yet he looks closer to fifty. An athletic build, very lithe and lean, broad shoulders, strong arms, a trim waist, now verging on skinny after a recent and rather sudden weight loss.

His hair is dark streaked with grey and is styled in an untidy mullet that brushes the nape of his neck and does little by way of improving his appearance. He wears nothing aside from a pair of stained tracksuit bottoms that ride low on his hips to reveal a sparse covering of hair on his chest and a thick line of unruly dark hair on his stomach that disappears below the waistband of his pants. Half a dozen crudely done tattoos adorn his hands and neck each one done by friends with little common sense in his younger years. His eyes are bloodshot, exhausted from countless nights spent out with friends complaining about their spouses and drinking themselves into oblivion or so Kathy assumes.

She cannot help herself and finds that she is staring in fascination, and perhaps revulsion, at the older man who calmly gazes back. He studies her as enquiringly as she does he, his steely gaze intense and unwavering; not unlike her husband she is tall, verging on six feet in her socks, with off-white curls, natural due to distant Scandinavian roots and similarly tired turquoise eyes from night after night spent waiting for him to return from doing God knows what with those awful friends of his.

It has been said that couples who live together for long enough will eventually begin to resemble one another. That may well be true, she thinks; they both look equally exhausted.

"Well?" he prompts growing tired of her staring.

"It's lovely," she says finally and promptly returns her gaze to her gift which really is exquisite. Carefully she removes the ring from its packaging, and slipping off her engagement ring she slides the new piece of jewellery onto her finger before following it with her engagement ring; it is a perfect fit. Looking at it she struggles to swallow past the lump in her throat. Not for a long time has she been so overcome by emotion and a myriad of scenarios pass through her mind as she wants nothing more than to hold him close and thank him profusely for this beautiful gift, but rational thinking kicks in before she can act, however, and she does not.

For months he has claimed that his days of crime are behind him but she knows better, she hears him talking on the phone late at night in hushed tones, lying in bed pretending to sleep she has never question his returning home stone cold sober when he has supposedly spent the evening drinking at a bar on the outskirts of town. He has been distant for some time, thoughtful and quiet and Kathryn thinks you do not share a bed with someone for almost five years without knowing when they are up to no good; especially when that person keeps such terrible company.

When she met him on a cold late winter night she had thought of him as a leader, someone who was willing to take control of any situation without a worry, but one minute in the presence of his best friend Michael Townley had changed her perception of Trevor. It became clear to her that Michael is a leader whereas Trevor is a follower choosing to obey, for lack of a better word, his friend's every wish, and that thought truly frightens her.

"So, Trevor, what have you done?"

Her tone is sarcastic and to Trevor it is mocking and he frowns, not that anyone unfamiliar within would have been any the wiser, the Canadian looks to be in a permanent state of irritation as of late.

She tries again aware of how ungrateful she must sound. "You don't buy me presents, love. You forgot our anniversary for Christ's sake. I know it isn't stolen because you're a lot smarter than that, so you've done something that I'm not going to like." She pauses and silently prays that he will open up to her but he does not grace her with a reply, nothing is ever simple with Trevor.

"What's Michael gotten you involved in this time? You had better not be in any trouble; I told you the last time that I am fed up with the cops coming round here looking for you. Why can't we just have a nice quiet life for once?"

Someone wishing for a quiet life certainly does not marry, or even take anything to do with, Trevor Philips, and truthfully that is what first attracted her to him. It is that not knowing what each day will bring that excited her and his confidence both in himself and his abilities is extremely attractive. She was well aware of what he was like when she first met him and honestly it rather excited her, he was a far cry from the boys she was used to dating in high school, even the so-called rebels who would have run home to their mothers at the mere sight of Trevor. But Kathy has reached a point in her life where the white picket fence and the steady lifestyle looks rather inviting; just for one day, she thinks, it would be nice to not have to concern herself with her husband's whereabouts or to look over her shoulder when she leaves the house for work or to run errands.

"Nothing," he snaps back his voice a low growl from deep within his throat. Irritated, he kicks his chair back sending it skidding across the narrow kitchen with a piercing squeal that causes Kathy to visibly flinch as he leaves the room in a rage.

The kitchen is stiflingly hot and standing also, Kathryn throws open the window over the sink letting in the chill of the early morning spring air which brings with it the overpowering smell of gasoline from the nearby gas station mingling sickeningly with the scent of freshly cut grass.

Brushing a flyaway strand of blonde hair from her brow she follows him into the living room, a small L-shaped room that also encompasses the dining room. It is a narrow room much like the rest of the house with pale cream floral wallpaper and a thick white carpet that is worn dark grey in places furnished cheaply with unsteady furniture. A set of sliding glass doors look out onto a small veranda with plastic lawn chairs thick with mildew and multiple pots filled with browning plants calling out for water. In the centre of the room is an over-stuffed white sofa with suspicious stains on the seats and one too many colourful cushions. When they moved in she had had high hopes for their tiny home, but those are simply a thing of the past.

Standing by the glass doors he runs a hand through his hair that is desperately in need of a wash and turns to face her. The light spills across his face and catches a particularly deep scar which is illuminated a shocking white giving it the ethereal appearance of a lightning bolt slicing through the night sky. "It's nothin' for you to concern yourself with. Look, I wanted to treat my wife," he tells her irritably. His fists clench and unclench as he becomes increasingly agitated.

He is tense and on edge, and that terrifies her more than anything he could have said or done. He is not necessarily frightened, but he is anxious; Trevor Philips is many things, murderer, lover, businessman, but one thing he is not nor has he ever been is afraid.

"And why don't I believe you, Trevor? I don't-" Kathy pauses and bites her lower lip nervously unwilling to admit to the fact that she doesn't quite trust him. She knows from experience that he is planning something, something much greater than his past escapades from his attitude over the past month and she has no doubt in her mind that those criminals he spends his time with, Brad and Michael, have something to do with it. Brad is single with no ties, but Michael she doesn't quite understand, he is married himself with two young children, surely any man would come to his senses and realise that this is no life for his wife and children, surely he would consider Trevor and his wife in all of this.

"You don't what? Trust me?" He spits and Kathy averts his gaze.

"That is _not_ what I was going to say," she tries to recover herself but the damage has been done and words fail her. He scoffs disdainfully and she retaliates. "Alright, fine! I don't, and why should I? We can barely pay the bills and you give me this ring." She waves her hand wildly. "I love it, I fucking love it, I really do but that doesn't stop me wondering where the hell you got the money from?"

"I've been saving. And if you don't want it, I'll take it back right _fuckin'_ now." He steps towards her reaching for her arm and she recoils her bejewelled hand lashing out at him with her other. For a brief moment he wishes that his wife was like other women and could easily be silenced and satisfied by a present with an expensive price tag, but of course, Kathryn Philips is not at all like other women, she is not mousey and plain like Amanda but rather brash and bold and willing to fight for anything and everything –granted she has calmed down in recent years as she settled into her role as wife- and honestly, he loves that about her. She excited him in a way that no other woman, no robbery, no joyride has ever done before and at the same time he admires the way in which she will fight him tooth and nail when she knows he's wrong, but just this once he wishes that she would take a step back and let him do what needs to be done.

"Get your hands off me!" She loses her temper and picks up one of the cushions resting precariously on the arm of the sofa and tosses it at him angrily. "I know you're going to go ahead with whatever you're planning, but don't you _dare_ get me involved. Not again. And you can tell Michael that if anything, anything at all, happens to my husband I will kill him. I mean it." Her voice lowers and for a brief moment Trevor believes her. Her cheeks are beginning to turn pink from anger, he has always found her to be extremely beautiful when she is passionate about something, and to him it makes her highly alluring.

"Kath, I'm not fuckin' arguing with you. You need to get to work or you're going to be late," he tells her bitterly. She has always had an uncanny ability to know when he is not being entirely truthful, she reads him like a book, and despite a distinct lack of morals and consideration for others he has never been able to shake that feeling of guilt when lying to her, this time however, it is necessary. This is their big score, one that they have been planning for several months and if anything goes wrong or does not go entirely to plan he cannot, _will not_, drag her into it. He and Michael have agreed that if it does not work out the way in which the three friends have planned they will not be returning to Ludendorff or to their wives. The eternity ring, a symbol of his unending love for his wife –how Brad laughed when he explained the reasoning behind the ring finding it wholly amusing that Trevor has real feelings and real emotions, whatever, Brad's thirty-five and jacking it in a fucking sock in his mom's house, the fuck does he know?- is a potential parting gift on the off chance that they are not successful, something that he and Michael have discussed at length, and if things do go according to plan, well, it will merely be a token of his affection, the first of many gifts he will lavish upon her.

"Fine." She relents defeated already, she is much too tired to fight, too worried and frightened to argue and she is on the brink of tears when she stoops to retrieve her work shoes from behind the sofa. She works several blocks away at a diner on the outskirts of town where the food is cheap and nasty much like the clientele, it's not a great job by any means with low pay and anti-social hours but as a high school dropout she counts herself lucky to have any job at all.

She slips on her shoes, her bag is on the kitchen table and she snatches it up watching the table rock from side to side as she sniffs loudly trying desperately to hold back the tears. She is embarrassed; this is not like her, her emotions rarely get the better of her. Ready for her twelve hour shift she pauses and looks at him for several moments during which the silence between the couple becomes unbearable. Her lower lip trembles violently.

"Please, Trevor, please promise me you won't get hurt. That's all I want."

He steps forward and pulls her roughly into his arms in an odd display of affection that startles her a great deal and causes the tears to fall freely; he is usually only affection towards her when he wishes to have sex. "I promise nothing will happen. Stop crying." He kisses the top of her head trying desperately to block out Kathryn's loud sobs as she presses her face into his chest her body shaking painfully with each intake of breath. She is already praying for the end of her shift when she will return home to see her husband and sort this mess out.

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading. I know it seems a little far-fetched that they married after a few months together, but it is entirely possible. **


	3. Welcome to the Family

"Is he with you?" She is nervous, anxiously looking over Kathy's shoulder in search of her husband or perhaps the followers she had once amassed, and she has every right to be.

"He's gone."

Those two words taste bitterly acidic and they roll clumsily from the tip of her tongue like they have no right to be spoken, and in a way she thinks, they do not. It has been four months since she kissed Trevor goodbye for what would be the last time, and despite knowing full well that he will not be returning at any point in the near future it remains difficult to fully come to terms with.

Relieved that she has not been followed, the older woman gently closes the heavy wooden door behind Kathryn leaving it unlocked something that bothers the blonde to no end and skirts around her visitor who quietly follows her down the hallway leaving a gap of several steps between them. Their footsteps are softened by the thick off-white carpet that floors the majority of the ranch.

The hall is long and very wide stretching from the front door to the kitchen at the rear of the house; large enough to easily accommodate an extra two rooms, or possibly the Philips' modest two bedroom bungalow, it is decorated in a welcoming manner, her late mother's choice, light and airy colours, framed photographs of an attractive family in stylish frames placed every foot or so depict the last thirty years in cold black and white, a wide ornate mirror by the foot of the stairs widens the room and provides extra light and a pair of comfy yellow chairs turned inwards to a dark polished wood table stand guard by the wood and stained glass door.

It is cool in the foyer, perhaps too cool and Kathryn's skin breaks out in an uncomfortable layer of gooseflesh; her father had always liked it cold. Her younger siblings now grown and flying the nest the house is quiet and verges on estranging. No amount of warm décor can erase that feeling. Aside from the absence of her siblings –her sister's music blasting from one of the upstairs rooms as she sings into her hairbrush, her brothers loudly playing violent video games in the den- the house is much the same with the same wallpaper, the same furniture and the same photographs adorning the walls. To her it seems unreal, unnatural in a way as though she has stepped onto a Vinewood film set, and she feels as though this house much like the remainder of her chaotic life should have changed at some point in the past five years. This consistency unnerves her though she is well aware that she should be grateful for the steady reliability of her childhood home, in all honesty, however, the similarity between now and the day she left makes her steps all the more challenging.

"How is he?" The older woman asks, trying and failing to pretend that she doesn't already know.

Startled, Kathy looks up at the back of the other woman's long ginger hair. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Trevor. How is he doing?" she questions as they step into the kitchen, a spacious high-ceiling room that is immaculate, a far cry from Kathryn's own modest bungalow. Standing by the kitchen island is a maid in her late fifties, dark-haired with thin strands of white, and Kathy is struck by with recognition; even the help has not changed in her absence.

The older woman pours her a glass of fresh orange juice and she takes it politely though drinking juice with her father's carer is certainly the last thing on the young woman's mind. Kathy sips at her beverage leaving a bright red lip print on the rim of her glass which she absently wipes away with her thumb. "I'm sure Daddy has already told you everything, and quite honestly I don't want to give you anymore gossip, there's enough of that in this town." Ludendorff is the epitome of small town America, with a population just shy of three thousand it is a town in which everyone knows everyone's business, and with a scandal such as the death of Michael Townley and the disappearance of Trevor Philips along with hundreds of thousands of dollars, Kathryn has of course become quite the talk. In the weeks following Trevor's desertion she was almost afraid to leave the house just to retrieve the mail as night and day she was hounded by members of the public and the press looking for answers, blaming her. That she can handle, people are naturally curious and, if she too were spectating on such a situation she would be quite enthralled also, but it is the doubt and the whispers on the street that really get to her. People whom she regarded as friends suddenly wanted nothing to do with her believing that she must have known that surely she was involved. Six weeks after he left her she was asked to leave her job at the diner.

The week subsequent to his leaving her was a quiet time and gave no indication of the drama that was to ensue. A state senator had been caught with a call girl and the headlines focused on their sordid affair, upon catching sight of the papers in the local convenience store she had muttered a quiet 'thank you'.

The red-head raises an eyebrow at her tone. "I'm sorry, I was just asking."

"Well, don't," she advises. "Look, I'm not here for chitchat, is Daddy in?"

The older woman observes her for a long moment curiosity getting the better of her, and why shouldn't it, Kathryn thinks, she's a broken woman, something to be admired, pitied, hated even. Tucking a flyaway strand of auburn hair behind her ear she gestures for Kathy to follow. "He's in the study. Come on. He's missed you, you know," she tells her. The blonde does not reply and silently she trails behind the older woman shortening her stride until she cannot smell her sickly sweet perfume.

She is uneasy, she was born and raised in this very house that never changes, a sprawling ranch two miles south of Ludendorff yet visiting today she feels like a stranger, someone who does not belong and it is a rather disconcerting feeling and one which leaves her feeling extremely uncomfortable.

In the narrow hallway leading to the study she catches sight of faded pencil marks by the frame of a closet door with the names of the five Dawson children written neatly in her mother's cursive hand beside them along with their respective ages and heights at the time. A good five inches above her eldest brother Nicholas' most recent measurement is the name Kathryn, aged sixteen. The first of five children Kathryn has always felt rather out of place amongst her family. Tall, blonde and blue eyed in a family of black haired, dark eyed men and women she became the tallest member of her family the summer she started middle school. Growing up, in her eyes, Kathryn looked like the neighbour's daughter who came for dinner one evening and simply never left, and many a time after a bitter argument with her mother during her teenage years she would entertain the notion that she had been adopted.

"How's he been?" she asks finally when the silence becomes too much for her to bear.

"Good. Yeah, he's been great." She pauses and adds, "As good as he can be, anyway." Kathryn does not reply and forces herself not to dwell on her father's failing health for fear that if she does so she will feel terrible.

They reach the study and behind the closed door she can hear the faint rumbling of the television. She knocks lightly on the door and steps back to await the gruff less than welcoming greeting that is sure to follow.

"Come in!"

Taking a deep breath to calm herself she clutches the handle and pushes the door open. The hinges creak as she opens and closes the door but he does not look up, he shows little interest in his guest and continues watching the television though Kathy knows that he is not really interested in the crime drama that is currently playing but rather he is savouring the peace, this small break from his family life. From a young age Kathy had learnt that her father's study was his sanctuary, a place where his children and even his wife were not welcome unless they brought important news. Over the years she has lost count of how many times she has returned home with a glowing report card to show her father only to be sent out and commanded to wait until he is finished working.

"Hello, Daddy. It's Kathy," she says quietly feeling her pulse quicken until she can hear it thumping in her ears and sweat breaks out on her brow as she observes him sitting in his armchair by the window whilst he clutches a glass tumbler of scotch. The medical machines surrounding him beep and whirr noisily and she averts her gaze so as not to look at the tubes trailing across his arms giving him the appearance of something from a science fiction film and the way in which his hand shakes so violently that he has already spilled much of his glass on his beige slacks. His hair is dark, so dark that in the mid-afternoon sunlight it appears blue, his skin is pallid, sickly, but his dark eyes are quick and alert showing the brilliant mind within this sad shell.

"I know that," he snaps not looking at her. "I'm dying, I'm not stupid. And your name's Kathryn, if I wanted you to call yourself Kathy your mother and I would have named you Kathy." Hearing his voice she is twelve years old again being told off for some miniscule misdemeanour such as spilling a glass of juice on the kitchen floor, something that most parents would let slip without a word, but not her father. Abrupt, bully, there are many words to describe the man.

"What are you doing here?" She did not by any means expect pleasantries from the older man but yet it rather hurts that after five years of estrangement he is unwilling to question his daughter's wellbeing, perhaps, she thinks, he is thinking the same of her.

"I just wanted to see you," she tells him as she takes a tentative seat on the edge of the armchair opposite him. "How are the others?"

He shrugs in a disinterested manner and nonchalantly proceeds to tell her the whereabouts of her siblings. Her eighteen year old sister is one week shy of graduating from high school and has been accepted into a top university, two of her brothers have moved out East for college whilst the eldest of the three brothers is living in Liberty City as a junior partner for a small law firm. Her father does not hold back and makes a snide remark regarding the success of her siblings but she does not rise to it, she didn't come here to fight.

"And where's that dumb trailer-trash piece of shit?" He has always hated her husband, in his mind he blames Trevor for his daughter leaving and for the death of his first wife, and rightly so. "Has he been caught yet?"

"You mean my husband," she growls. "I'd appreciate if you'd have a little respect for him." She does not quite know why she is defending the man who left her and whom she has not spoken to in months, but it has been said that love is a powerful thing and Kathryn wholeheartedly agrees.

Her father draws his eyes from the television and looks back at her, his dark gaze piercing. His voice is steady, eerily calm and for a moment Kathryn is frightened. "I will respect _him_ when he respects my daughter," he tells her softly. "So, where is he? Out robbing old women? Or fucking a hooker in the woods?"

Her mouth falls open but she is quick to recover. "I don't know where he is," she admits focusing her attention on a hang nail. She adds, "And you know that."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he's up and left for another teenage whore. Again." Kathryn wonders if her father realises he has just referred to his own daughter as a whore.

"Daddy, I'm not getting into this." He stares at her and she shifts uncomfortably. "He went out one day and he never came back, that's all there is to it."

Her father is silent for some time though she knows that he is not lost for words, not by a long shot, the man has always had something to say in every situation. "You really don't know where he is," he says with a sneer. A stranger observing this exchange would have been surprised to learn that Kathryn is Rupert Dawson's favourite of his five children, but Kathy knows that he was and still is much harder on her siblings than he has ever been with her.

"No." She shakes her head and pushes her hair back from her face feeling a chill run down her spine. The air conditioning is on full and it is uncomfortably cool in the room. "I haven't heard from him since the day he left, and no one fuckin' believes me." The hours spent telling the police everything she knew come back to her; whilst in police custody emphatically denying any involvement officers searched her home. She will never forget entering the house and finding all of her and Trevor's belongings scattered around their home, drawers had been pulled out, their clothing had been searched, the sofa had been cut open, the mattress was on the floor, even the fish tank was upside down, scores of dead fish lying in pools of water by the living room door. She had broken down and had dropped to her knees on the wet floor and cried for what had felt like hours cursing her husband for leaving her to clean up his mess.

"Don't play dumb with me, Kathryn Ramona. You're a clever girl; you must know. You must have heard from him." He is not sympathetic but rather incredulous at the naivety of his daughter.

His daughter falls quiet and stares down at her hands feeling tears pricking at the backs of her eyes and he relents. "How long has it been? A few weeks?" He sounds genuinely interested but she is unsure if he is interested in his daughter's welfare or simply in having something to belittle Trevor with.

She does not respond immediately but under her father's piercing gaze she is forced to confess. "Four months. And don't you dare sit there and revel in this, you old bastard." From the first day he met him her father had been extremely vocal in telling her that he would leave her, how he must be enjoying this, she thinks.

She can see that he is about to respond, but he does not, and that is the point when she realises just how ill her father has become. She may not have resembled him in appearance but personality-wise there was no doubt that she was his daughter, both headstrong, both with that same desire to prove themselves right and to argue just for the hell of it. She feels a pang of guilt that she has been only three miles away and she has not visited her father in five years as she observes the heart monitor and miscellaneous medical equipment that surrounds the aging man.

"And that's why I'm here. I'm moving."

His hand shakes violently as he reaches out to pour himself another drink and Kathryn watches unwilling or unable to help she is unsure. Her father is a proud man, one who does not care for help and would rather struggle on alone than allow someone to help him.

"What is it? Money?" he asks breathless from the slight exertion of pouring a drink. The heart monitor beeps erratically and she shoots a nervous glance in its direction but her father dismisses it with an exhausted flick of his wrist.

She is aghast. "No. Why would you think that?"

He scoffs and shakes his head amused by her confusion. "Come on, Kathryn, you haven't visited in years, we're lucky to get a Christmas card and then you turn up here with your tales of woe about that hockey-playing scumbag leaving you. What else could it be?" She is hurt that he thinks so little of her that he believes she would only come to him for money yet at the same time she can understand why he may think such a thing.

"No, Daddy." She takes a deep breath to calm her nerves and pauses to pick at her hang nail again whilst she stalls for time. "Trevor sends me money every month, and-"

He cuts her off becoming impatient. "Then what is it? Dammit, Kathryn, look at all this," he gestures to the equipment surrounding him; "Do you think I have time for this? Spit it out, girl!"

"I was getting to that," she says through gritted teeth and clenches her fists; she does not want their final meeting to be one of acrimony. "He sends me money, not much, but it helps me pay the bills," she tells him. "The envelopes are postmarked San Andreas. I'm going there to find him." She finishes the sentence with a loud rush of air feeling the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Her father laughs, a deep crackling sound from deep in his throat. "You think you're going to find him out there? You think it's like Ludendorff and you'll just bump into him? You've got a whole damn state to canvass," he reminds her and she realises that he is mocking her.

She stands and points her finger at the elderly man who in her mind has aged since she entered the room. "I know what you're thinking, you think I'm some silly little girl, and I don't know if you're stuck in the past but I am a grown woman, I'm married and I am going to bring my husband home where he belongs." She pauses, breathless; her hands now clenched at her sides in fists are trembling. Her voice drops as she adds, almost inaudibly, "And I just can't live in that damn house anymore." It is their first home as a married couple, it is where they shared their life together, where they tried for children, where they fought into the early hours of the morning, and she simply cannot take another night of entering the bedroom and opening his closet to remove his favourite jacket from its hanger and hold it. It smells of him, of sweat, bourbon and grease, it is a scent that is neither pleasant nor unpleasant and is uniquely him. Some nights she will sit on the end of the bed with his jacket in her arms and cry like a wounded animal.

Her father does not speak for some time but merely regards her calmly, quietly assessing her. "I don't know what you see in that boy, and frankly I don't think I ever will, and if you're willing to chase him across the country then that's your problem. But I do know one thing, that white trash bastard is your life, anyone can see that, and no, I'm not happy about it and your mother will be turning in her grave when I say this, but take it from me," he pauses and tugs at the IV in his arm, "you need to live because that's the important part. I wish to God someone had given me that advice when I was your age, because believe me you do not want to end up like me, old and bitter with too many regrets to count, stuck in a loveless marriage for twenty-five years and a bunch of ungrateful little shits for kids who you either hate or who don't visit." He stops again and takes a long sip of his drink and Kathryn wonders whether he has lost his train of thought or if he has merely seized an opportunity to complain about his life.

"You do whatever makes you feel alive and don't give a damn what anyone else says, because if you don't do it you'll never know. It might not be the right thing to do, or the safe option, but it sure as hell is a lot better than wishing and wondering, and it's going to add life to your years, and that's what counts, Kathryn."

She is lost for words and all she can do is gape stupidly at her father for some time. "Thanks, Daddy."

He turns his attention back to the television signalling that the conversation is now finished. She stoops to kiss his forehead, turns and heads to the door but pauses when he speaks which will be the final words he says to her, "Good luck, Kathryn. When you find him tell him I'll see him in hell."

**This took me so long to write. I'm not happy with it, but I don't think I can do anything else with it. Thank you for reading :)**


	4. Best Friend Kay

Kathy Philips listens to the radio as she drives down Strawberry Avenue towards Rockford Hills. The closer she gets to the affluent area the more nervous she becomes, her body almost vibrating with tension. She is not necessarily afraid; Rockford Hills is a stark contrast to the areas she has become accustomed to living previously, rundown projects where the residents become uneasy if they don't hear gunshot on a daily basis, rather, she is anxious, on edge as the rundown stores and boarded up windows give away to wide pavements and high end boutiques. She is driving fast, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles are turning white as she blasts through red lights and runs stop signs to a cacophony of horns.

It has been almost nine years since she packed up her clothes and few personal belongings into the trunk of her car and made the fifteen hundred mile journey from one end of the country to the other with the sole purpose of bringing her husband home where he belongs. Nearly a decade has passed by in a haze whilst she moves between bustling metropolises, quiet coastal towns and quaint desert villages painstakingly searching every nook and cranny of the vast state with little to tie Trevor to a particular area aside from the faded postmark on the envelope she received shortly after he left that is now torn and yellowed with age in the bottom of her handbag.

Once a month she contacts the county morgue and surrounding hospitals and waits on baited breath whilst files are searched for her husband's name, to no avail. It has been said that no news is good news in any situation, but Kathy does not agree; Trevor may be deceased, he may have wound up back in prison counting down the days until his release, or he may very well have settled down with someone else, perhaps he has children. Over the years her primary focus has become less on trying to build a relationship with her estranged husband and more on simply knowing what has become of him, perhaps then she can finally put this to rest and move on with her life.

Her chance to find her husband came on a late summer afternoon in central Los Santos whilst working the early shift at the coffee shop where she has worked for six months. In nine years this is the longest she has held a job down for, usually moving on every four months for another town and another long stream of let downs. Drying a stack of coffee cups and fantasising about their first meeting in a decade, though she has grown up enough to know that it cannot possibly go down well –how do you look someone in the eye and forgive them for deserting you?- she was caught off guard by a voice that stirred memories from her past. Well-spoken, Midwestern, a tone that so easily rubs her up the wrong way. After several long moments of searching her eyes fell on him through a narrow parting in the crowd and she knew that she had not been mistaken, his hair was longer and he had gained weight, but it was him. A dead man walking.

After seeing him with his wife, an older brunette eight inches smaller than Kathy and five pounds heavier she has stopped sleeping for fear of the nightmares that will ensue when she does drift off. If he is alive, it is possibly that the Federal Investigation Bureau shot and killed the wrong man; perhaps Trevor has been dead these past nine years. She does not allow herself to dwell on the idea of her husband's death for long.

The day she saw him she took her lunch break early and waited by her car watching the doors anxiously waiting for her and his wife to leave. When he eventually did she followed him and for the past week has taken to driving past his home, a Mediterranean-style mansion with light stucco walls, a swimming pool larger than Kathryn's rented studio apartment, and a well-tended lawn whilst trying desperately to work up the courage to confront him. Tonight is the night, she tells herself as she tears through another red light, tonight she will learn the truth of her husband's whereabouts, however painful it may be, after all she has not spent these last few years trekking around the state to pull out now, not when she is so close, regardless of how tempting the idea may be.

She twists the wheel hard to the left narrowly avoiding a Declasse Premier who has right of way. She straightens the wheel and immediately takes a sharp right as she turns onto a back street that will allow her to avoid the worst of the evening traffic. The clutch slips but catches again when she floors the accelerator. A red light flashes furiously on the dashboard as the engine temperature skyrockets, but she does not ease off the gas, all she needs is for this piece of crap car to get her to the Hills.

The Imponte Ruiner is old, rust has eaten through the paint and metal and the remaining paintwork is riddled with scratches and dents, but it gets her there. Parking a block away she gets out straight away without taking a moment to calm her nerves as she is fully aware that if she pauses even for a second she will not go through with it, and if she does so, these past nine years will have been pointless.

The street is quiet at night whereas during the day it plays host to the Vinewood Tours bus full of eager tourists hoping to catch a glimpse of a celebrity, Kathy closes the gate gently behind her and walks briskly to the front door, her body shaking with anticipation. She has played out multiple scenarios in her mind, the most compelling of these being her bursting in demanding to know where her husband is; that sort of thing may have worked for Trevor but it will get her nowhere. However, being polite may well lead to her having the door slammed in her face and then she will have no answers, she will be right back to where she started. If she is being honest with herself there is a minute part of her that doesn't quite want to know what has become of him, but it is easily outweighed by the desperate need to know. She has missed her father's funeral, her brother's wedding, and the birth of her niece in her search for Trevor, and the guilt of her selfishness eats away at her.

This is a safe neighbourhood and the door is unlocked and she lets herself in, hell, this house may very well have been bought with her damn money so she has every right to be here. The house is exquisite and if she were here for anything other than a confrontation she may well have stopped to admire the beautiful portraits and expensive décor that embellish the foyer. She hears voices and follows them up a small set of steps into a large living room that has been decorated by someone with impeccable taste.

"This is nice," she states leaning against the pale cream wall and the couple start. "Is this your little slice of _heaven_?"

"You," is all Amanda Townley says when she looks up to find Kathryn Philips standing in her living room. She stares up at the younger woman in uninhibited shock as she pulls her robe tight around her small frame. Several years older than Michael she has aged well, or more likely she has spent enough money to ensure that she looks good. Although Kathryn knows her to be in her late-forties her skin is as smooth as a teenager's, even her neck and hands, the usual giveaway are smooth. She turns to Michael with an accusing look as though he is to blame for the intrusion of their privacy.

"I told you when that psycho turned up that I was done. And now this, Michael? Get her out of _here_." Michael quietens his wife and suggests that she wait upstairs, that he will handle this. She ignores him and casts a look of distaste towards Kathy her slippers squeaking against the carpet as she shifts on the sofa.

Michael offers her a seat, apparently oblivious to the tension in the room but she refuses, the seats look neither comfortable nor inviting as though they have been seldom used, and perhaps, she thinks, that is what this house is, just a show. "I'd prefer to stand, thank you."

Kathy observes the room; life has obviously been good to the couple. They live in Rockford Hills, an expensive city within Los Santos in a beautiful, newly-built two storey house with expensive cars lining the driveway. High cream walls loom over her, soft white carpet beneath her feet. A marble fireplace takes pride of place in the centre of the living room in front of a set of white leather sofas. Red silk drapes border the windows. Original oil paintings of the family adorn the walls.

She takes a step forward and Amanda shifts uncomfortably. She sits on the edge of the sofa, her back straight, hands folded in her lap, legs pressed tight together and tilted to the side. She displays the feminine manners that Kathryn herself so desperately lacks, but the display of manners and the beautiful home does not fool Kathy, this couple started off not at all unlike Kathy and Trevor in a rundown trailer in the Midwest.

Michael leans forward and pours whiskey into a cut crystal tumbler resting on the coffee table, the sound of the liquid cuts sharply through the silence that has enveloped the room. Without looking at her he says coolly, "I was wondering when you would show up."

The words take her breath away and she falters. "You- I'm sorry, what?" For a week she has followed him keeping her distance trying to remain inconspicuous, yet somehow he has spotted her.

"Come on, Kay," he says with a laugh and she bristles. "Your car sticks out like a sore thumb in this neighbourhood. You're driving the same piece of shit you were ten years ago and you thought I wouldn't notice you've been following me for days?" She simply stares at him, lost for words feeling foolish. This is not at all the way in which she envisioned this meeting to play out; it should be he who is at a loss for words, not Kathryn. "Now, I'm going to ask you this once, and then I would like you to leave, please; what are you doing here?"

She tucks a strand of blonde hair, bleached white by the San Andreas sun behind her ear. She knows she looks terrible; her hair now to her waist hangs limply in rat tails an indicator of the amount of time that has passed since she last visited a hair salon, she has lost weight and her cheekbones, sharp enough to cut through glass are very visible.

He's calm, he always was, she thinks, sitting on the couch with one leg crossed over the other in a casual manner. "Tell me where my husband is," she orders in an attempt at gaining back some dignity.

"Trevor? Do yourself a favour and just leave him, give up," he tells her shaking his head at the fact that anyone would want anything to do with him.

"He's my _husband_," she says through gritted teeth as though it is that simple, as though these past few years that he has been absent have merely been an extended business trip.

"Michael, I want her out. Right now." Amanda is so tense that her body is trembling and Kathy can almost hear her humming like a piano wire. She looks at Kathryn taking in her dishevelled appearance, the dark circles beneath her eyes that even ten pounds of make-up cannot hide, the light summer dress that once tight now hangs on her narrow frame, and for the first time addresses her, "You have no right to be here, in our home. I want you to leave."

"Not until I know where my husband is. You have to know something," Kathy says looking at Michael hoping that he too will look at her. "Please."

Amanda speaks before Michael is able to. "He's a piece of trash."

"How are those new tits holding up?" Kathryn spits and begins to walk around the living room trying to put as much space between herself and the Townley's as possible.

"I think you should come back another time," Michael tells her when his wife gasps looking as though she has been slapped and she knows she has lost her chance. In that one moment she has lost everything she has worked for. "I'll see you out." He gets to his feet and approaches her; he is an inch smaller than Kathy and she looks down at him in anger her mouth set in a hard line.

She is furious, not with Michael or Amanda, but with herself, her father had always said she had a big mouth and this is a perfect example. She has lost and she explodes. "Better duck first."

"What?"

The older man moves quickly when Kathryn picks up a vase. She throws it well over his head and shards of crystal fall inches from him.

"How _dare _you?" Amanda screams standing now also.

Kathryn ignores the frantic woman and turns her attention to Michael, her husband's best friend, the man who is supposed to six feet under in a cemetery six miles south of Ludendorff. "Now, tell me where my husband is." When she does not receive a reply she slowly and deliberately observes the room saying, "This is a really nice place. There's no way you could have afforded this, so that makes me think you faked your death and took the money. What do you think Trevor would say if he knew?"

Michael, usually so calm and composed not at all like Trevor who wore his heart firmly on his sleeve, is surprised and she knows she has hit the nail on the head. She is smart, she had had dreams of going to college and studying law, but she had given that up when she met Trevor, if she had never met him who knows where she would be now. "Oh, what a surprise, I'm right. Alright, Mike, I want my share. This house is, what? Two million dollars?

"I want this house, to start with. Considering what I've been through these past few years I would say that's quite fair." Regaining her composure she walks around the room and picks up a portrait of their children. Trevor had loved Michael and Amanda's children; it was a side of him that she had never seen before and they had tried for years to have their own children, though after years of failure and a miscarriage they had simply been left heartbroken. She drops the painting on the floor, "I'll have this."

"Stop it!" Amanda cries as Kathy continues her stroll around the room picking up various valuables and dropping them. "Michael, get her out."

Snapped back to reality by his wife's voice Michael advances towards her and takes hold of her arm leading Kathryn to the foyer whilst she struggles. Despite his light grip he is much too strong for her and grudgingly she relents feeling hot tears burning the backs of her eyes as her chance slips through her fingers.

On the doorstep she looks down at him the tears are flowing freely now. "Please, Michael. He was your best friend, and I know you know something. I haven't seen him in years and I need to know how he is. I can't go on like this anymore, you're married surely you can understand." She hates him, they have never seen eye to eye but just this once she hopes that she can appeal to him.

He doesn't reply and begins to close the door shutting her out. "Go ahead," she dares using the back of her hand to wipe away her tears smearing her make-up further adding to her bedraggled appearance. "Close the door, but I promise you I will be back." Her voice is soft but the threat is unmistakeable.

He stops the door partially open and observes her for a long time. He has aged, crow's feet border his dark eyes and his forehead is severely creased and for a moment Kathryn feels sorry for him, he is not happy and she knows that this was not the life he envisioned when he left Ludendorff, perhaps he is envious of Trevor's ability to leave his responsibilities behind and to start afresh.

Somewhere in this beautiful house a clock is ticking and Kathy listens counting down the seconds in her head as the pair stare at one another and finally he relents. Whether it is out of a genuine desire to help his best friend and his wife or simply to get her off his property she does not know. "Fuckin' hell, Kay, you're just like him, you know that?"

**Author's Note: I've been writing this at work the last few nights and haven't proof read it, so apologies for it being so awful. Thank you for reading :)**


	5. Animalize

Trevor Philips wants a television. He wants to watch some ridiculously over-rated sports game, remote in one hand and a cold bottle of beer in the other whilst some overzealous and highly overpaid commentator emphatically narrates each and every movement made by the players. He wants to mindlessly flick channels late at night until he finds something that catches his eye. He doesn't want something fancy, not some behemoth monstrosity such as the sort owned by Michael, just something in colour, with a remote and that will pick up a little porn to enable him to relieve the stress of the day.

The black and white television in his trailer hasn't worked in several months, now in Los Santos he is considerably short on cash and the stores in the city do not allow someone to pay for their television on a monthly basis unless they have held down a steady job for a minimum of three months. Trevor cannot recall the last time he has done an honest day's work, not that his lifestyle has paid him in any way whatsoever; the high hopes he had had when he first began working alongside Michael have gradually evaporated into nothing. In the last decade he has lost his wife, his home, his friends, and he has sweet fuck all to show for it, but this is who he is, it is what defines him as a human being.

Floyd, Wade's quiet cousin, a younger man with a nervous manner, a soft voice and thinning dishwater blonde hair owns a television. Small, twenty-two inches, but it does the job, and now, _now_ the damn thing has packed in displaying white and grey lines whilst emitting a terrible, ear-splitting sound, but Trevor neither turns down the volume nor does he switch the set off. Removing his hand from the front of his pants and wiping his palm on his leg he takes a long swig of whiskey, the amber liquid burns his throat, though it is a pleasant pain, and slams it down on the coffee table with a thump that resonates throughout the small condominium.

"Goddammit, Floyd, get your ass in here and fix this motherfucker," he shouts and awaits the customary scurrying from the smaller man who lives in a perpetual state of fear when around the older Canadian. He frequently glances disdainfully as Trevor as though he is some sort of monster and if he is being honest he rather enjoys it, it has been some time since anyone has looked at him with that level of terror, perhaps he has begun to lose his touch.

"I-I don't really know how to fix it," the blonde man tells him infuriatingly stuttering and stumbling over his words as he wheels the television forward from the wall and peers down at the back of it. "I'll have to call the company to-tomorrow morning."

Trevor observes him for a long moment during which the younger man shifts uncomfortably beneath his penetrating gaze. "And what am I supposed to do with this?" He gestures to his erection. His tracksuit bottoms are loose but he has become increasingly uncomfortable against the fabric of his pants. "You can jerk me off."

Floyd begins to reply his voice breaking when Trevor stands. He is much taller; almost a full foot taller and he can almost hear the younger man's balls quivering in fear.

The blonde starts when someone pounds on the door. Their visitor continues to knock, hammering on the door so hard that it is a wonder the wood does not split under the force. It is late, the sort of time when a knock at the door or the sound of a phone ringing can bring no good, especially when their visitor is so desperate to gain entry and Trevor wonders if he has perhaps been followed here. God knows he has pissed off enough people in the past twenty years.

"Are you going to get that?"

The younger man looks back at him and then he is hurrying towards the door wringing his hands together anxiously. He hears a muffled exchange of words, the tone is pleasant and he pays little attention but it is when the smell hits him that he is ultimately dumbfounded. It is the overpowering smell of cheap cigarettes and expensive perfume worn by a woman in an attempt of masking the habit, to no avail. Standing by his wife when she smoked he found the scent not at all unpleasant, but it is the smell that lingers afterwards that turns his stomach, the pungent smell would cling to her clothes, her hair and her possessions. When living together the surfaces of their home were frequently covered with an acrid, greasy film that no amount of scrubbing could ever hope to remove. He must be mistake, he thinks as the stench fills the room, there is no way that she can possibly have located him, she is certainly not so stupid as to track him down when he has tried to such an extent to keep her out of all this.

"Trevor? You-you have a visitor," Floyd calls but Trevor does not respond. He is searching for a way out his quick dark eyes darting wildly to the balcony like a cornered animal and he steps forward towards the sliding doors that are streaked with fingerprints. He does not want this, not right now.

"Hello, Trevor." He stops and the blood in his veins runs cold. Her voice is unmistakeable; rather deep for a woman, the way in which she rolls the letter r to drag out his name in a way which suggests she is testing out a new word, enjoying the feeling of it on the tip of her tongue. Her father grew up in the South and although she has, until now, never been out of North Yankton she picked up his accent boasting a mild twang, but she is certainly no Southern Belle.

Cornered, he slowly pivots to face her. Kathryn Philips, his wife, the woman who carried his child is standing in the middle of the apartment one long fingered hand on her hip staring at him in a hostile manner. Her stance and facial expression suggest that she has come here for a fight but the quiver in her lower lip tells otherwise. She is afraid.

She has lost a significant amount of weight, previously she had had that thin layer of body fat that makes women so appealing, and her new slenderness exacerbates her height causing her to all but fill the small room, her high cheekbones and defined jaw line almost threaten to burst through her ashen skin. Her hair, almost white, hangs by her waist in long thin tendrils and her make-up is smudged, dark uneven tear lines cut through her foundation and her lips, painted a brilliant vermillion red appear to have been chewed on so frequently that they may bleed. Her nose is crooked, tilted slightly to the right evidence that she has had it broken at some point without attending the hospital. Dishevelled appearance, unkempt hair, legs so thin that they look as though they may give out at any moment; my God, Trevor thinks, she is beautiful.

"What? Have you got nothing to say for yourself?" She removes her handbag from her shoulder and tosses it onto one of the cheap blue couches. It lands with a soft thump and it is evident that she is carrying something heavy. "Come on, Trevor, I didn't come all this way to watch you gap at me like some halfwit." She sounds much like her father.

He regains his composure. "The _fuck_ are you doing here? You were supposed to stay in Ludendorff."

"You expected me to wait? For nine years?" Her tone is incredulous and she takes a step forward her hands at her sides clenched into fists. Her ill-fitting dressed covered in bright daisies that is much too cheerful for this occasion skims her knees and a packet of cigarettes bulges in the pocket of her jacket. "You sent me a thousand dollars over three months and then it just stopped. What was I supposed to think? What exactly did you expect me to do?"

He studies her in a scrutinizing manner. "So you opened them." He expected the envelopes to have been tossed in the bin when Kathy opened her mailbox to find a handwritten letter from him.

"Yes. Eventually." She rests against the flimsy arm of one of the couches and then seems to think better of it choosing to stand. She stands at her full height brushing six feet and towering over Floyd who hangs behind her watching the exchange unfold with wide, curious eyes.

Trevor looks at him and directs his next words at him. "Floyd, wait outside. Give us some privacy you fuckin' vulture." He points to the door exaggeratedly and startled, Floyd obeys almost tripping over his own feet in the process. The door slams closed behind the younger man and Trevor turns on her like an animal. The scars on his face have darkened.

"You stupid woman," he says. "You stupid fuckin' bitch. I told you to stay in North Yankton." This is evidently not at all what Kathryn has been expecting and her face falls momentarily her eyes displaying shock and hurt.

"For nine years? That's what you expected?" Her voice rises in pitch and she shakes her head in dismay. "I came here because I love you, and I'm here to take you back where you belong."

Trevor stares down at her in disbelief at the admission that comes so easily. He has become used to being alone; in fact he enjoys it. He feels a certain sense of freedom in knowing that he need not worry about another human being. Of course it can be lonely but in Los Santos there is a strip club on every block and a working girl on every corner to satisfy his needs. He no longer needs her; but Kathy needs him.

He recalls when he first fell in love with her. He didn't really think it was love at first, love is much too intense, it requires a level of commitment, and at first he thought he simply rather liked fucking her, God knows she was the first woman to show him any attention in a long time, but eventually she made him see how desperately he craved it. The descent into love was altogether involuntary, like a hiccup that rocks a train off the track sending it airborne over a fucking cliff.

"What do you want, Kathy? Money?" He's been drinking and he clumsily fumbles in his back pocket.

Her face says it all. "What do you think I am? A fucking prostitute? I don't want your goddamn money, Trevor." She stares up at him breathing heavily and points an accusatory finger at him. "You haven't changed at all. Everything is a game for you, isn't it? This right here, this is a game. You don't give a fuck about me or anyone else; you just want to make sure you win whatever the cost."

Trevor doesn't reply and stoops to pick up the bottle of whiskey from the table. He drinks from the bottle, loud gulps whilst she stares at him resentment oozing from her pores. He fucking loves her when she's mad, and despite her tone he knows that she loves his attitude.

"Don't give me that arrogant bullshit." She used to adore the way in which he took risks, his reckless manner, that he went out and would swing his dick around and beat down anyone and anything that tried to get in his way with no concern for his or anyone else's safety. He looks at her; she is simply a little girl who has become stuck up from letting the big city get to her head.

She avoids his gaze and her lower lip trembles. "Say something," she hisses through clenched teeth. Her teeth are straight, dazzling white against her red lips. "Anything. You want me to leave? That's fine. If you want me to stay, I'll stay, just please say something." She is begging and it is in that moment that Trevor realises she has changed; the years have worn her down and left her with little fight.

"I just need to know what you want. I want my life back, Trevor," she tells him her voice little more than a whisper.

He repeats his earlier statement. "You're a stupid fuckin' woman. You think coming down here is going to change everything? We're just going to jump on a plane and go play happy families and live happily ever after?"

He continues, taunting her, revelling in his mockery and she turns. She has had enough and she turns, she must get out, get away from him and put this terrible ordeal behind her. She heads for the door her footsteps falling in time with his slow deliberate clapping and as he watches her shoulders rise and fall he knows that she is struggling not to let the tears fall. She knows he has a temper, she knows he can be difficult, but right now he is nasty, cold and callous.

"You get on that high horse of yours and ride the fuck on out of here."

She leaves the door lying open and slowly he follows watching her descend the stairs with her head bowed and her purse clutched close to her chest. Her long hair blows in the light breeze and he is struck by the strange memory of pushing her hair over her shoulder in order to kiss down her back. It has been some time since he has thought of his wife and seeing her tonight he is sorely disappointed by the woman that he once would have done anything for. Hell, he's already killed for her, not that he received many thanks. As he watches her, her body slumped and deflated he thinks that he rather misses his wife, the way in which she would correct him when he was wrong and fight him tooth and nail, but this, he shakes his head, is pathetic.

He is not done and he follows advancing on her when she pauses by her car to fish her keys out of her bag. She has parked her car beside his truck leaving little room for one to pass yet he does not think of the restriction as he grabs her arm and pulls her around to face him. Shocked, she immediately slaps him with all of her power the force of which sends a sharp jolt through his jaw much like an electric current and he cannot help himself, he laughs. He laughs in her face and her cerulean eyes flash with anger offering a brief glimpse of the girl he married almost a decade ago.

He reaches for her wrist and she draws back her free hand raising it in the air and punching him. She is too close and the throw is clumsy and her knuckles graze the edge of his chin whilst his shoulder takes the full brunt of her hit. She is struggling with an animalistic ferocity as he pushes her up against the car door; her long fingernails scratch his arm drawing blood.

He doesn't quite know where the urge has come from, he kisses her. The kiss is largely similar to their first kiss in its fervency and desperate longing. Their teeth clash together painfully and he forces his tongue into her mouth one large hand gripping her jaw his short nails digging into the soft skin of her cheek. She tastes of old cigarettes and strong coffee, a combination that one should find extremely unpleasant but which further encourages him. He reaches down and grabs her dress in his fist and pushes it up feeling the material on the hem give from the force and he tugs at her underwear. She does not stop him, in fact she assists him removing her thong and pulling down his stained tracksuit bottoms with a numb, clinical efficiency.

He pulls back, he does not know whether it is he or she that is bleeding but their lips are smeared with blood, a shade darker than the red of her lips. Her eyes are wide from the exhilaration, her lips parted as she breathes heavily and he spits into his hand. It is an action that is unnecessary as she is ready for him, but when he pushes inside of her he takes her breath away. He has gone much too deep and she emits a noise that may be pain just as much as it may be one of pleasure, regardless, she doesn't tell him to stop or offer any indication that she wants him to and grips his shirt tightly her nails catching his skin through the thin material as she moves meeting his thrusts.

Pressed against the cool door of the car, out in the open for all to see, her legs wrap around his waist and she bites his lip causing him to push harder and faster.

Overcome by ecstasy he cannot hold off and when the uncontrollable feeling rises up from the pit of his stomach he bites down on the thin skin between her neck and her collarbone receiving a loud gasp in response as he meets his release. His entire body is throbbing with the intensity and, his knees weak, he falls against her.

His legs shake beneath him and he slides out of her, the aftermath of their actions gleam on her inner thighs and she raises her hands to her face to hide from him, horrified, ashamed. She does not speak merely avoids his gaze as he struggles to pull up his pants on unsteady legs, but when she does finally look up he is gone.

Once more he has deserted her.


	6. Picture Perfect

It is one of those picturesque early Spring evenings that San Andrean's all too often take for granted when the evening sun is reluctantly giving way to dusk and the streetlights are slowly flickering on. Passing pedestrians on the bustling streets cast elongated shadows on the dark tarmac and the burnt orange and fiery red glow from the setting sun as it gradually dips behind the mountains reflects in the gentle swells and ripples of the Los Santos River.

Sitting on the edge of her bed Kathryn is fixated on the view. Los Santos is a beautiful city, but like many good things it does have its dark side. Two miles up the road lies the city of Rockford Hills, with its chic restaurants and million dollar homes. In the opposite direction is Vespucci Beach, a quiet and fashionable area boasting specialist shops and high rent apartments that is popular amongst retirees and the young alike. Kathryn's current location is a worst case scenario between the two; nestled on the border between Little Seoul and Downtown Los Santos it is an area that the local police force considers to be very much a war zone.

This being a Saturday evening, the prostitutes are out in droves aiming to give the churchgoers something to confess to at mass in the morning. A half dozen working girls wait in a line on the sidewalk three floors below her apartment and through the gap in the window she hears them whistling and calling out expletives to passing cars, some of which stop briefly before taking the passenger to the back of the complex. Often Kathy sits by the window and watches the vehicles come and go, she observes the girls, some barely older than teenagers, as they brave all sorts of weather in skimpy clothing that leaves little to the imagination simply to make enough money to eat that day.

The building is old, standing at twenty storeys high the dilapidated red brick structure has been tagged repeatedly by the local gangs and it is a fact that makes Kathy feel rather uncomfortable when she crosses the car park late at night despite the frequent police presence. She flicks her cigarette butt out of the open window and immediately she reaches for another, but she pauses with her thumb on the tip of her lighter. The thumb of her left hand is dry and calloused from years of smoking, she started young, her first month of high school she recalls in a desperate effort to impress the older and seemingly more popular kids at school. She had begrudgingly stopped when she had met Trevor who found the younger woman's habit altogether disgusting emphatically claiming that there was little benefit, neither emotional nor physical, to smoking and frequently complained over the lingering smell. Returning home from work to an empty house nine years previously the first thing she had done was find her packet of cigarettes hidden at the back of one of the kitchen cupboards; her safety net.

Giving in to temptation, she lights her cigarette and inhales deeply, taking a moment to relish in the harsh feeling of smoke hitting the back of her throat. The orange tip is coated in a thin layer of crimson lipstick that is sticky to the touch as she absently wipes it off; the action is ultimately devoid as at once she raises it to her lips once more. She is dressed for work, a white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt and low black heels, her hair up in a loose ponytail. She finished work the previous evening, a long shift during which her entire body throbbed from her encounter with Trevor one week earlier, and as of yet the pain is unyielding.

She has not moved from the windowsill for hours, although if she were to move within the apartment she would not get particularly far. Approximately ten feet by ten the apartment consists merely of a single bed, a worn out couch and a small kitchen, barely the size of an average closet the bathroom is depressingly dingy. Her apartment much like the rest of the building is cool and damp, uncomfortably so, and the air is thick with the odour of beer and cigarette smoke mingling with that of sweat and stale urine.

Whoever had designed the apartments had certainly not envisioned happy children returning home from school to milk and cookies served by loving mothers, rather they had focused primarily on security ensuring that open spaces were kept to a bare minimum and covering the exposed light fixtures with steel mesh. The doors are heavy steel and the walls are bare concrete with miniscule windows covered with thin bars, whether that is to keep intruders out or to ensure that the residents do not get out Kathy is still unsure.

Rosebank, a beautiful name for a terrible place, is a stark contrast to her childhood home in the North Yankton countryside. She grew up in the circular, small world of the upper middle class in a beautifully decorated extensive ranch which frequently played host to elaborate parties for whichever institution her mother had taken a fancy to.

Rupert Dawson and his wife Selma were privileged, not at all like Kathy and Trevor, he a lawyer and she a high school chemistry teacher, though she had given that up when their first child was born. Selma had been one of those women who threw herself into parenting; active in the PTA, taking her eldest daughter to ballet and tap lessons, making costumes for school plays.

The Dawson's, similar to most affluent couples made the assumption that their money and status would easily protect their children from going down the wrong path; taking drugs and drinking. What they had not anticipated was that these two factors would allow their children to buy _better_ drugs and alcohol, and they had certainly not foresaw any of their children encountering someone like Trevor Philips.

For Kathy Trevor was a refreshing change from her family, her hard father, her ditzy mother, her siblings who, several years her junior were already setting the bar so high that Kathy could only ever hope to stand on her tiptoes and brush her hand against it with no chance of ever crossing it. Being with Trevor had a similar effect on Kathryn to smoking a joint, he took the edge off of everything, made her feel good about herself, and she no longer cared for her parent's disappointment in her or her siblings' apparent perfection when she had been with him.

Her parents, when they first met him, were quick to judge and they blamed the age-old culprit, the bad crowd, but what they did not realise was that Kathryn _was_ the bad crowd. Her father, a busy man who had little time to concern himself with his eldest daughter's behaviour simply assumed that it was a rebellious phase that would pass in a matter of weeks, whilst her mother took it upon herself to put a stop to the relationship. Kathy met Trevor in February, by March she had dropped out of high school and had left the family home for his beat up trailer on the outskirts of town, her mother's funeral was held in April.

Kathryn tosses her cigarette out of the open window and stands, grimacing from the sharp pain between her thighs as she does so. It has been eight days since she met Trevor for the first time in almost a decade and still she continues to reek of disappointment at the way in which their first meeting went, it is certainly not at all like she had envisioned. He has grown cold, almost calloused, yet there is a distinct sadness in his eyes that only she would know.

In the eight days following her encounter with Trevor she has made plans for her future. The house in Ludendroff is in Trevor's name and has sat empty, abandoned since she left. She plans to return to North Yankton within the next month where she will put this whole terrible ordeal out of her mind, hopefully she will move on with her life without her husband.

She slams the window closed shutting out the voices of the working girls on the street below and the sound of car doors slamming shut and turns to inspect the apartment. It is small, claustrophobic in a sense, quiet and lonely. A cat sleeps on the radiator beside the door; six years old she bought the tabby to keep her company whilst she travelled around the vast state, but the cat is the epitome of indifference and offers her little companionship.

She stoops and strokes her cat, oddly named Mary, who complains profusely at the interruption and picks up her handbag from the crooked table by the door. She proceeds out of the apartment and down the stairs ignoring the elevator located in the centre of the ageing building. She does not quite trust the lift which creaks and groans as it moves between floors and she certainly does not trust the residents of Rosebank who may use it. The foyer of the building is damp, dank and dreary and an involuntary shiver courses through her body as she makes her way down to the ground floor. There is a football game on tonight, a local team against a team from Liberty City and she hears the commentary blasting from behind several doors as she passes.

Day has given way to night when she steps outside; it is a time that she much prefers when the darkness cloaks the building and its dismal surroundings making it marginally more visually pleasing. As she passes the group of prostitutes one of them stops her.

"Kat, you okay, doll?" She looks up at the younger woman stands eyelevel with Kathryn in a pair of ridiculously high heels a gaudy shade of pink. In her mid-twenties with peroxide blonde hair and dark roots six inches long she has a hard face that tells her sad life story through the lines on her face, sallow skin marred by deep wrinkles and sores from her frequent drug use, she could be twenty-five just as she may be sixty-five. Ten pounds lighter than Kathy she appears fragile, like precious china that may break with the slightest touch, but there is nothing at all fragile about this woman who has seen more in her years on the streets than Kathy has done in her lifetime.

"I'm fine, why?"

"Some men was lookin' for you. They seem mad, _real _mad." The younger woman wipes her nose with the back of her hand and sniffs loudly. A filthy white scarf wraps around her neck and a silver sequined top that is missing the majority of its embellishment barely covers her sagging breasts. Her red skirt is short riding up on her hips to expose her thin underwear and out of decency Kathryn averts her gaze.

Her attention piqued, Kathy furrows her brow her forehead sloping into a deep V asking, "Who were they, Tina?"

Tina shrugs her bony shoulders and shakes her head. "I dunno. Some guys stopped me, thought I was you." Kathryn is well aware that she has let herself go in recent years, but this is certainly a new low.

"What did you say?"

She shrugs again and Kathryn wonders if the woman has a tic. "I says no, obviously. I says I ain't heard the name. What you got yourself mixed up in, Kat? They looked real mean."

"They were looking for me specifically?" Kathryn struggles to come to terms with this revelation, to make sense of it, she cannot think of a single person who would wish to seek her out. She lives a quiet life, keeping herself to herself, and rarely ventures out unless she is going to work or taking out the trash, or, such as tonight, going out for an evening drive to clear her mind.

"Kathryn Philips." She speaks slowly as though Kathryn is hard of hearing and the older woman nods. "Well then, they askin' fo' you. Suits, looked like FIB, t'me."

Kathryn feels a jolt of panic coursing throughout her body and her voice rises significantly in pitch. "If they come back and ask for me again, tell them nothing, alright?"

"I ain't stupid." She looks Kathryn up and down. "You not workin'?"

"No." She does not elaborate. "Tina, thanks for helping me out."

"It's nothin', darlin'. You look out for me, I look out fo' you." Her smile lights up her face and for a brief moment Kathy sees a glimpse of the young woman before the drugs consumed her. "And I ain't tellin' nobody 'bout you if they ask," she reassures her and Kathryn nods.

"Thank you. Listen, I've got to go." She smiles one last time at the prostitute who is no longer looking at her but rather she is watching a car that is pulling up. Kathryn knows from her hours spent gazing out of the window that this is one of her regulars.

She hurries towards her car, her heels clicking on the tarmac and concern washes over her like a cold wave. She cannot think of anyone who would wish to get in contact with her, who would specifically seek her out, but as she dwells on the matter she is overcome by a sickening feeling of realisation, and, as she slides into the driver's seat she curses Trevor.

She starts the car and drives through the city, the radio turned up high listening to the final half of the evening's football game her mind wandering. In her early twenties, a therapist had told her that she looked for men who would hurt her because even at such a young age she had known little else. This therapist had also indicated that the reason she argued so relentlessly with Trevor was to anger him, to push him to the point where he would finally beat her; the therapist claimed that she only truly loved him when he didn't treat her well.

She lights another cigarette and the car swerves in a violent manner into the next lane, she grabs the wheel and steadies the vehicle as she leaves the city taking the road that cuts through the mountains. She often drives up here when she cannot sleep or she simply needs to clear her mind finding the striking scenery and the quietness altogether soothing, especially at night when there is little traffic on the road to interrupt her thought process.

Kathryn stops several miles outside of the city enjoying the peace and turns on the interior light as she flips down the sun visor. After all these years she keeps a photograph of Trevor and herself taped to it, it is of their wedding, a casual affair in Las Venturas in which neither dressed up, he in dark jeans and a grey shirt, and she in a short cream dress. Their families did not attend, knowing nothing at all of the wedding. Looking back, Kathy would not change a thing about their wedding; afterwards they had gone out for drinks and to a casino where they had gambled away their small amount of money with not a care in the world.

Kathy tears the picture down and crushes it tightly in her fist.


	7. Reunion

Kathy's mouth had bled profusely at some point during the night, but the gag has kept the majority of it in her mouth leaving a bitter taste. Her head is pounding and her body aches to such an extent that she is unable to move without crying out in pain. Her hands and feet are bound tightly, the constraints cutting deeply into her wrists and ankles leaving painful welts. Even if she possessed the ability to move she is unable to escape, and has little means of helping herself. This feeling of complete powerlessness is ultimately heart breaking and leaves her with a feeling of desperation.

She takes a deep breath, her lungs aching as she inhales the stale air deeply, and despite the pain in her head she concentrates simply on regulating her breath and ensuring that she remains somewhat orientated desperately controlling the overwhelming urge to vomit from the awful taste in her mouth coupled with the erratic movements of the vehicle.

The car begins to slow and her chest tightens involuntarily in panic as she feels the suspension rock unsteadily as the tires crunch over a winding gravel road. Kathryn is unaware of how long she has been in the trunk just as she does not know who had pulled up behind her on the mountain road and had hit her on the back of the head. The laugh, however, was familiar, a sound that immediately stirred up jumbled memories of her childhood in North Yankton a lifetime ago.

The brakes groan as the car rolls to a stop and the pain in her chest and head further increases, and she closes her eyes and begins to count the seconds in her head, quelling the fear that rises up inside of her like an acid that threatens to devour her. At twenty, a door opens and slams with enough force to rock the entire vehicle. Footsteps crunch on the gravel drawing closer to where she lies her body contorted painfully in the dark confines of the trunk.

At fifty seconds a key scrapes in the lock and she listens to the mechanism turning with a click. It is dark outside, no streetlights, and the sky is speckled with miniscule stars. She hears the deep rumbling of a jet engine as it passes low overhead.

She welcomes the fresh air, relishing the coolness against her clammy skin and she breaths the air in deeply her nostrils flaring as she does so.

Rough hands take hold of her legs and she struggles kicking out to the best of her abilities, however, her captor simply grabs her legs and coarsely swings them over the edge of the trunk. Her feet dangle precariously inches above the ground and when she is ordered to get out she does as she is told without hesitation. She rolls on to her side and pushes, though her body is weak and limp and with little leverage the ordinarily mundane chore of righting herself proves to be a near impossible task. Exhausted from her exertion she collapses back, panting from the effort and her wrists scream in pain from the weight of her body upon them.

"Jesus Christ." It is a man's voice, young, a deep rumble from deep within his throat, a curious accent as though he is accustomed to moving frequently. He grabs her shoulders and with little effort wrenches her into an upright position, and with his hand on her lower back he pushes her forward until her feet touch the ground.

She slides herself out of the car and totters unsteadily, though she keeps her balance. The ability to stand and to stretch her legs, though it is rather limited, is a welcome relief to Kathy.

"You used to be so limber. All those dance lessons. You're getting old now." With little light it is impossible to see her captor; in fact she cannot even determine what race he is. His shadow shows him to be approximately half a foot smaller than her, slim, and her eyes strain in the dim light to get a good look at him. She knows he cannot possibly be with the Bureau, he is not in the least bit methodical, and hitting her and tossing her into a trunk indicates a certain level of rashness. No, this is something much more frightening, she thinks, someone with a grudge who knows her well enough to have knowledge of her dance lessons in her younger years. The thought sends a rush of cold fear throughout her body.

In the still night she hears the sound of metal scraping and she starts. "Now, I'm going to take these off you. Don't try anything funny." He spins her around and she gasps at the feeling of cool metal against her skin. With a quick upwards movement the rope binding her wrists falls away and immediately she rubs at them attempting to get the circulation going once more.

Her hands and fingers tingle uncomfortably and she wraps her arms around her body as a feeble way of protecting herself. She jumps when the trunk slams closed and he pushes her forward. Unsteady on her feet she trips but he grabs her arm tightly before she can go over.

With her ankles tied their progress is slow and as she looks around she can just make out the shadow of a house looming ahead of her. He pushes her roughly through the door and she hits her thigh against a table by the door; she utters a muffled curse through her gag.

Pushed through another doorway her feet slip out from under her and she lands hard on a tile floor. Kathryn rolls over reaching out and her hands brush against cold porcelain; she is in the bathroom.

"Get up," he orders gruffly. In no position to argue Kathy presses her cheek against the floor and pushes herself onto her knees, and finally to her feet. She hears movement and something creaks as a weight is set upon it. When the light flickers on she immediately shields her eyes, momentarily blinded, and she blinks rapidly in order to adjust to the sudden change.

It is several moments before her vision is clear and when she glances around the room she immediately regrets her choice. The bathroom is narrow yet rather long, decorated simply in plain white tile, a large bath tub with a shower overhead sits at the end of the room against the wall, and a porcelain toilet and sink sit side by side by the door. There are no windows in the room, simply an extractor fan beside the door, and the door lies open exposing a dark hallway.

The man sits before her on the edge of the toilet, legs crossed and one arm resting on the sink. He is rather short, but he is powerfully built with broad shoulders and strong arms; unruly dark hair and dark eyes, verging on black, olive skin, a result of his mother's North African roots. He watches her with a curious half smile.

"Remember me?" he asks and immediately she backs away until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bath. She is trapped, terrified, cornered like an animal, her cerulean eyes wide and frantic.

"Oh, of course; how stupid of me." He realises his mistake and stands. In two long strides he is in front of her and he deftly removes the bloodied gag from her mouth dropping it and allowing it to fall around her shoulders. The fresh blood stains her white blonde hair and the front of her blouse.

He steps back as though admiring his work. "Better?"

When she speaks her voice is rough. "What are you doing here?"

The smirk remains on his face, that smile that isn't really a smile at all, the one feature that the entire family possesses, including Kathryn herself. It is very much a mocking look which infuriates her.

He returns to his seat on the toilet and in a slow and deliberate manner he removes a semi-automatic pistol from the inner pocket of his jacket. Dressed smartly in a pressed dark blue suit and tie she can easily see how Tina could have been mistake into thinking that he was with the FIB. She eyes the weapon black in colour and it stares back at her, unrelenting.

"What do you think I'm here for?" he asks casually.

"I don't know," she replies quietly feeling her lower lip begin to tremble in a combination of fear and pain. She is yet to hear any traffic and her heart sinks at the realisation that no one will ever find her out here in the wilderness.

He catches her looking at the pistol and laughs cruelly, the laugh which sounds startlingly like her father. "Don't be stupid."

Her legs weak she sinks down onto the edge of the bath. "I thought you were in Liberty City. Some hotshot lawyer," she says casually recalling her final conversation with her father before she left North Yankton as she tries to suppress the fear.

He shrugs his shoulders rising to his ears and leans back. "Things change." She does not respond and perhaps the silence presses him into informing her of the past decade. "After Ma died, I just couldn't focus on anything. I managed to get myself through college, barely, and I threw myself into my work. Understandable considering what I had hanging over my head. I just fuckin' cracked, lost my job, my home, my wife. My _daughter_. So I came out here."

"What are you _doing_ here?" she asks not fully understanding what he is telling her. Despite only a three year age difference they had never been particularly close as children with little time for one another and difficult listening to one another.

He stands, he is much smaller than his sister but nevertheless she flinches and recoils almost slipping into the tub in the process. She braces herself against the wall and steadies herself. "What do you think I came down here for? I want you and your husband to pay for what you did."

"I've done nothing," she snaps.

He points the gun at her and her lips part in surprise. "You tore our family apart, you killed her. In doing that you killed Dad, too. You ruined my fucking life!"

"I did not kill Ma. She fell, you know she drank a lot, Nick," she replies. The words feel fake and immediately she knows that he can see straight through her.

"Bullshit, Kathryn. You know," he says as he takes a step toward her. "I was just a kid back then but I used to wonder what you could see in him. You were from a good family, you had money, you were Dad's favourite, you had everything you wanted, and you threw it all away for _him_. You used to be beautiful, all my friends wanted to come to the house just to see you, and now look at you, you're a mess. But I take it all back; you two were made for one another. You're pure evil."

She forces a laugh that to her own ears sounds strained and shakes her head. "You're pointing a gun at me, you've kidnapped me and _I'm_ the bad person?"

"You're getting what you deserve," he tells her, but she does not miss the slight lowering of the gun as her words take effect. "Where is he?"

"I don't know."

He begins to pace the small room, his shoes thumping against the tile. "You, Kathryn, you're easy to find. You check in everywhere on LifeInvader, bad choice if you're running from something, but Trevor, he's lying low, nothing I do flushes him out. I have tried everything to pique his interest to get him to come to me, but nothing."

"I'm running from nothing," she states.

"How do you sleep at night, Kathryn? In Liberty City I dealt with a lot of scumbags, but every one of them regretted what they had done, but you, I don't see a single ounce of remorse from you." He waves the gun angrily and she leans back her eyes following its every move.

Her eyes remain focused on the barrel of the gun as she reaches down and tugs at the rope that binds her ankles. "Alright, Nick, fine. I killed Ma, are you happy? Get your revenge if that's what will make you happy, but you are going nowhere near my husband."

"The man left you, according to Dad. Why are you defending him?"

Trevor is the best thing to have ever happened to Kathryn and presented with this adversity she knows that she will protect him with her life, but she does not reply. She remains quiet and drops her gaze. She cries out, her scream echoing in the bathroom when he hits her with the end of his pistol and slumps forward onto the floor, she watches, her vision blurring, as blood pools onto the tiles.

"You broke my nose," she says her voice muffed as she presses her hands to her face. It is certainly not the worst pain she has ever experienced, Kathy has had plenty of broken bones and concussions in the past, but the emotional pain and shock of receiving it at the hands of a family member causes every other past injury to pale in comparison.

"Oh well."

On some level she understands his need for revenge; he was close to their mother, and while Kathy and her brothers and sister grew tired of Selma Dawson neither needing her nor wanting her, Nicholas strived to make the older woman feel needed. Her mother doted on him, much like their father with Kathy, and perhaps this is down to the fact that he greatly resembled their grandfather, her mother's father, a well-built Tunisian man. Yet, as much as she understands his pain, she too has lost everything, her husband, her home, but she has persevered.

"What is this going to achieve?" she asks as she pushes herself to her knees, closing her eyes as she waits for the dizziness to pass. "Do you really think you're going to feel any better doing this?"

He ignores her and removes a cell phone from his trouser pocket and the flash momentarily blinds her. "Let's see if he's got an ounce of humanity about him," he says stooping so that she can see him sending the picture. Her vision is blurred but she can almost make out Trevor's name on the screen. "What's going to hurt more, Kathryn, watching me kill him or Trevor not turning up at all?"

He stands at the sound of a car outside, the gravel crunching and Kathryn freezes her heart pounding. Doors slam and she catches sight of his smirk as he says, "It took long enough. I had some friends go out and tie up some loose ends, you know, your hooker friend?"

Kathy's breath catches in her throat and she moves backwards from him, her hands slip in the blood and her lower lip trembles fearfully. The phone beeps as he sends the picture to her husband and his laugh sends a chill throughout her body.

"You're going to pay for what you've done to me and my family," he tells her as he crosses to the door and begins to close it behind him. The hinges squeal as he does so and the old feeling of panic rises up from the pit of her stomach.

He turns off the light and she pushes herself to her feet. "Wait. Don't leave me in here." The words leave her mouth involuntarily and she feels foolish for having uttered them. "No!"

The door slams and a bolt slides into the lock. She runs to the door, her fists hammering against the wood with an animalistic ferocity. The door shakes but it does not give and when the realisation that the picture sent to Trevor will have little effect on him, that he has seen much worse in his life, she sinks to her knees and waits to die.


	8. Broken Wings

**A/N: A huge thank you to everyone who has been reading, reviewing, favouriting or following this story, it means a lot :)**

San Andreas weather is rather curious, Michael thinks as he watches the dark clouds to the west slowly edge over the city and make their way north towards Blaine County. Thunder rolls ominously in the distance and he cannot help but to marvel at the fact that a mere twenty minutes ago there had not been a single cloud in the sky. He leans back against his seat and listens to the hum of traffic passing by on the low bridge beside him. Drawing on a cigarette he pulls his cell phone from his jacket pocket and tries Trevor's cell again, waiting until it goes through to voicemail before promptly disconnecting. He has been trying to call him for the past half hour, but as of yet he has had no joy; it is not at all like Trevor to ignore his calls, even when he is in a bitter mood, his temper getting the better of him, he will answer even if it is simply to cuss at him and demand that he stop calling.

He flicks off the car radio in the final minute of a baseball game and leaves the car, slamming the door and stretching his legs as he does so. The old factory is dilapidated, miserable in its appearance, with an expanse of boarded up windows and graffiti covered signs, almost hidden behind the shadow of the bridge it boasts an overwhelming sense of isolation despite being fewer than five minutes by car from the heart of the city. Sad and lonely, it is largely unsafe, but as one of the cities few listed buildings it can be neither renovated nor torn down.

Tossing his cigarette into the mounting pile of trash by the doorway he proceeds up the stairs and quietly enters the office on the second floor, a room that is filled with towering stacks of cardboard boxes, and amongst the chaos it is several seconds before he spots the man by the window. High enough to deter vagrants, the windows on this floor have not been covered, but the dirt and grime that coats the thin glass sheds little light within the room.

Younger than Michael by several years, somewhere in his late thirties, the other man stands with the aid of a cane and greets him with a discreet nod. Small in stature, verging on heavy, his thin blonde hair is beginning to recede and his large glasses offer him an owlish appearance. For all intents and purposes he looks very much the stereotypical nerd and his appearance belies his age, one would guess that he is perhaps in his mid-fifties.

"Lester, I need your help." Michael begins and progresses to inform the younger man on his visit from the Los Santos Police Department this afternoon. Kathryn Philips' car had been found abandoned several miles out of the city with the driver's door lying open in the early hours of the morning during a routine patrol and amongst the items found within the car was a sheet of paper containing his name and address. Judging from the fact that Trevor is yet to answer his phone it is not particularly outlandish of him to entertain the possibility that the young woman is currently taking up permanent residence within his freezer.

Lester does not respond immediately, deep in thought as he processes this information quietly working out a strategy. After several moments the blonde opens his mouth but as he is beginning to speak the door behind Michael bursts open slamming against the wall with enough force to knock chunks of plaster to the floor and as the dust rises the two men look up, their faces a mixture of surprise and irritation at the sudden intrusion.

"Dammit, Trevor," Michael snaps as the younger man strides into the room his shoulders swinging from side to side in a self-assured swagger. He is tall and thin but ordinarily his poor posture takes inches off of him and adds those inches to his waistline, today however, he stands at his full height, the top of his head just shy of brushing the light bulb that dangles uncertainly from the ceiling, his legs wide apart and his broad shoulders set. His stance suggests that he is ready for a fight and his presence all but fills the room but Michael has known him long enough to know that while this may be true he is also upset.

"I've been calling you all afternoon," he continues his tone almost berating him.

"Nice to know you care, Mikey," Trevor responds gruffly and, uncharacteristically ignoring him and not taking a spare moment to make some scathing and wholly unnecessary comment regarding his wife, he advances on Lester in a manner largely similar to a predator stalking its prey. "Oh, Lester, Lester, Lester, have I got a job for you."

"What?" The bespectacled man has little time for Michael's tattooed former accomplice and it reflects in his tone, but Trevor either does not notice or he chooses not to hear. He always has been an expert with that, hearing only what he wishes to hear.

"With this." Delving a hand into his pocket he tosses his cell phone at the much smaller man who fumbles unsteadily as he tries to catch it whilst also keeping a grip on his walking stick. Trevor clenches his fists and Michael notices fresh cuts and flourishing bruises on his knuckles, the cuts are much too deep to be the product of a fight, these have been self-inflicted, perhaps a wall.

Lester looks up from the screen and shakes his head in bewilderment. "What have you gotten yourself mixed up in this time, Trevor? I told you, you can't come to me every time you screw up."

He gestures to the phone and states casually, "That's my wife." Someone unfamiliar with him would not have picked up on the slight tremor in his voice, but Michael hears it immediately. Upon entering the room he had thought the grey haired man to be upset, but now he knows him to be positively devastated, in his own curious way.

Interested as to what has prompted this thinly veiled show of emotion Michael steps closer and leans over Lester's shoulder. The picture is of low quality, too much flash to see much of anything, but he can make out the thin figure against the stark white background, bloodied and bruised, legs tied together it is certainly not the worst image he has seen in his lifetime but he can understand why it has affected Trevor.

"I know that's your wife. I've met her." A quiet holiday get-together in Ludendorff, just Michael, Trevor, Brad and Lester, no women, no children, just four friends discussing times past over some chilled beers, Kathryn had arrived some time after midnight to pick up her husband. On her way home from a work night out she was dressed to the nines, a black dress that clung to her hips accentuating her figure and exposing the top of her full breasts it would have been difficult for any man not to look, and he recalls Trevor telling them as he began to leave, his face contorted with rage that if they so much as looked at her again he would cut off their cocks and shove them up their ass, or words to that effect. Every man, gay or straight, in the Midwest knew to avert their gaze when Kathy Philips passed by.

"Great." He claps his hands together exaggeratedly and the sound rings out in the empty garment factory largely similar to that of a gunshot. "Now we've got that out the way, what are you goin' to do about this little situation?" He gestures to his cell phone and Lester turns, his gait is slow, shambling and he heads for his computer.

Pulling out a seat he tells them, "I can trace where this was sent from, we won't get an exact location, but we'll get the tower it hit off, so it will be pretty close."

Trevor's eyes flash with anger and he steps forward, his fists clenched against his side, but Michael quickly intervenes pressing his hand hard against his chest and pushing him back. "I don't fuckin' want close. I want the fuckin' address, the goddamn room she's in."

"Hey, T." Michael keeps his voice low, soothing, trying not to anger the already fragile man. "Calm down. Just let him do his stuff and we'll see what happens." This close to the other man he can smell his pungent scent, a mixture of gasoline, gun powder and sweat, feel his warm breath against his face as his chest rises and falls rapidly and see the redness of his eyes.

Keys tap wildly as the two men stare at one another, willing the other to look away first, until finally, Trevor snarls and turns kicking out at one of the nearby tables sending a pile of boxes crashing to the ground. He curses loudly and strikes the cardboard that is in his way furiously and hawks and spits on the floor, Michael, disgusted, looks away.

A decade previously Kathy and Trevor were a wonderful couple, a truly beautiful combination, one as captivating as it was terrifying. Although in appearance they had seemed to be rather unsuitably matched, she a striking young blonde with nice tits and a perfect ass, the definition of bombshell, and he a drug-addled redneck with a receding mullet and the stench of death clinging to him, they were a perfect match in terms of personality. Headstrong and passionate with powerful tempers, she kept him in line and as a result they kept one another entertained, one incessantly pushing the other as though part of some twisted game, and perhaps it was, two people very much in love messing around with one another for the sheer hell of it. Extremely attracted to one another, Michael never missed the longing looks and the gentle touches, the tenderness of their interactions.

Since their separation, if that is what one can refer to their situation as, Michael thinks, they have changed, their lives taking a downward spiral both falling faster than a Boeing with broken wings. Trevor has always been a hard man, the result of an abusive childhood and troubled youth he was fiery tempered and bitter, cold and callous, calculating, but now he is nothing short of frightening, his actions extreme and far surpassing the thin line between sanity and insanity. Meanwhile, Kathryn has become little more than a shell of her former self, the once strong and proud woman has become a scrawny pathetic thing with little fight left in her, and he had been stunned when she had broken down on his doorstep, crying and begging for his help. Without one another, he has no doubt that they are each on their individual paths to self-destruction, a rapid descent that will eventually leave little more than the back boxes amongst the twisted, smouldering wreckage.

Just as quickly as he had turned away, Trevor turns on him again, his eyes narrow and his jaw set. Although he is expecting it, when Trevor slams his hand into his chest he falters and falls back narrowly avoiding falling onto the dust and rat shit covered floor. "Don't you dare tell me to calm down, _Mikey_. That is my _wife_." His lips curl up in a grotesque smile and Michael almost feels for the man; despite their previous differences, if that were Amanda he would be much less calm and collected, in fact, he would be a mess.

Nevertheless, he retorts, "Your wife, T? When you run off for nine years you stop being a couple. Admit it; you want to go to her because someone else has her, am I right?" Trevor glowers and he continues, "It doesn't matter if she's with someone else or she's been fucking _kidnapped_, you just want to win. Why don't you do Kathy a favour and leave her alone?"

He falls back against the wall, feeling it shakewith the impact when Trevor punches him, a sharp jab that leaves him reeling and his head spinning. With one hand he pushes the taller man back watching as he glares down at him contemptuously his breathing heavy and laboured. His jaw throbs and he raises a hand to inspect the damage, but it is nothing much, it may leave a nasty bruise but it is nothing to concern himself with.

"Would you two stop? I swear the only one of you that has any sense is Franklin," Lester snaps, his glasses begin to slide down the bridge of his nose and he pushes them up irritably. "Now, I think I've found something." With one final scornful look towards Michael, Trevor joins Lester leaning over his shoulder a fact which he knows makes the younger man extremely uncomfortable, but which he does for the small amount of amusement it brings him in watching him squirm.

"What is this shit? Ring fuckin' maps? I thought you were some computer whiz, I could do this in my fuckin' house," Trevor scolds him dark circles of red forming on his cheeks as his anger skyrockets once more.

"If you would let me speak; I found a cell tower outside of Paleto Bay, which unfortunately covers a rather large area." Trevor groans in a mocking manner and, aggravated by the interruption, Lester continues, talking over him, "I searched for Kathryn Philips and I have to say, I found nothing aside from a marriage license, police reports pertaining to you and Michael, and a LifeInvader account which she is extremely active on. There are no privacy settings so if someone wanted to find her there's enough information and check-ins to establish where she'll be at what time and on what day."

Michael watches as Trevor grips the smaller man's shoulder his fingers digging into the skin. "Get to the point," he states, annunciating each word, his voice a low growl.

"The cell phone; it is registered to a Nicholas Adam Dawson, aged thirty-one, originally from Ludendorff. He's a lawyer and he owns a house in Paleto Bay, close to Mount Chilliad."

Michael steps forward. "That's her brother, he just got fired from his firm for dealing meth," he tells them and Trevor frowns to which he replies with a shrug, "I watch the news."

"If that's true, then he's not going to be alone," Lester muses. "Take Franklin with you, and I'll try to get a layout of the house."

Immediately, Trevor turns and pushes him aside pulling the door closed behind him with enough force to rock it on its hinges, his footsteps echo throughout the building, loud angry steps that threaten to bring the building crashing down around them.

Lester gives Michael a furtive glance. "Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

**A/N: This is definitely not my best chapter or my best writing, when I was reading it over it feels a bit forced to me, and the dynamic between Michael and Trevor is all wrong, but regardless of how many times I tried to change their interactions it seemed as fake as ever, so if you got this far, well done to you ^^**


	9. Start of Something

Kathy wakes on the bathroom floor, her skirt has ridden up around her waist to expose her underwear and her ripped stockings, and one of her shoes, black and sensible with a low heel, hangs precariously from the end of her foot whilst her other is bare and she shakes her bound legs clumsily until the scuffed patent leather shoe drops to the floor with a soft thump. Through her clothes her body is covered in an uncomfortable layer of gooseflesh. There is a strong chill in the bathroom, one which rises from the floor tiles and wraps itself around her body working its way into her bones.

Windowless, the bathroom is dark but from the quiet birdsong outside she knows that it is morning. She has become accustomed to living in the city and until hearing the chorus she had not realised how greatly she missed it, a cheerful sound by which to start off her day, but the carefree chatter is not at all suited to her current situation.

She has slept little, an ordinarily heavy sleeper she has woken with a start at every creak and groan made by the old house, lying in the dark unmoving, painstakingly listening for footsteps, waiting for her brother to return. She had admitted to her mother's murder to please him, knowing that it is what he wanted to hear, but truthfully, although she had been an accessory, present at the time of her death, Selma had not died at her hands, rather Trevor's.

All young girls have a difficult relationship with their mother, blaming her for their failings, for each and every problem that arises and which at a certain age seem much like the end of the world, and Selma Dawson and her daughter's Kathryn and Melissa were no exception to that rule, with a relationship that was particularly fiery. Mere days after marrying Trevor Selma had arrived at their home, an unkempt rundown trailer on the wrong side of the tracks whilst Kathy was home alone demanding that her eldest daughter return to the family home and abandon her marriage. Her father, a prominent lawyer in the neighbouring city, had already drawn up divorce papers and upon being presented with them Kathy had emphatically sent her on her way. Furious, when her husband had returned home that afternoon she had informed him of the visit watching as his anger boiled over and he rapidly reached breaking point.

Unneeded by her husband and the majority of her children, Selma had found solace in alcohol, putting away a bottle of wine by lunchtime most days, a habit that had begun several years previous when Kathryn was seventeen and when Trevor grabbed the older woman by the throat and tossed her down the stairs effortlessly the knowledge of her mother's addiction within the small town had caused the case to be open and shut with it being immediately ruled as an accident by the Ludendorff Police Department.

Her mother was a beautiful woman, a part-time model in her college years before she had settled down and started a family, dark hair, dark skin and dark eyes, an enviable figure, and Kathryn is yet to forget the fear in her mother's eyes and the way in which her face contorted grotesquely as the pressure on her throat further increased, her eyes darting to her daughter standing behind her husband quietly watching the events unfold, begging for her help.

Kathryn presses her shoulder against the side of the bath and pushes herself to her feet, her bruised body crying out in pain at the small effort. A forty a day habit forces her to take a moment to catch her breath and slowly she shuffles across the floor, her arms held out in front of her. Before the light had been switched off she had seen a mirror crudely fixed to the wall over the sink and she searches for it, feeling the wall with her hands at the height she estimates it to be at.

It is several minutes before she finds it, her feet slipping out from beneath her on the slippery surface, and when her hands make contact with the cool glass she breathes a loud sigh of relief. She sucks in air through her teeth trying not to think of the pain as she draws back her arm and hits the glass with all of her power.

The glass shatters beneath the force and she pauses to listen for movement within the house, but although she knows he is there as she has not heard anyone leave during the night, no one comes to investigate the noise. She is overwhelmed with relief and begins to search the sink for a piece of glass that is large enough. In the dark it is a laborious job and she tosses several shards aside until she finds what is required and, sinking to the floor she begins.

"_You bastard_," she breathes; smart and meticulous, with an eye for detail she has never known Nicholas Dawson to make mistakes. Even as a young boy he had always been in control, on top of everything, even his childhood games were methodically planned, not at all like a normal child, and, two years his senior, Kathryn had teased him mercilessly. She knows he will have planned everything down to the finest of details, considering every possibility, except for the fact that glass can cut through rope.

"You stupid fucking _bastard_," she whispers and grits her teeth as she begins to saw at the rope that binds her ankles.

The glass slips several times blood soaking her hands and the rope, and she drops it, but she continues, taking it slow until she has begun to somewhat perfect her technique. She has learnt more about the knot he has tied, has begun to understand the thickness and the way in which it is wrapped around her ankles. The rope has rubbed raw a section of the skin, and her efforts aid the process, causing the rope to bite into the skin and she breathes heavily fighting the pain, however, she almost welcomes the feeling as it succeeds in taking her mind off of the excruciating pain in her head and her nose which is surely broken.

She is going to get out of this, she tells herself, focusing her mind on the glass. She whispers Trevor's name in the dark, feeling rather foolish as soon as the words have left her mouth, but nevertheless, she continues.

"Trevor," she says. "I'm going to get out of this, I promise. I'm going to make everything right, and if you want me to leave you, I will. I love you." She feels the rope give slightly and she continues, "I love you so much, Trevor, so, so much. Whatever you want from me, I'll do."

She pulls her legs apart but the rope does not budge any further and she returns to relentlessly sawing at it. The jagged shard of glass slips and slices through her fingers, and she curses, but she does not relent, but rather it fuels her and pushes her on desperate to free herself. As she works furiously she whispers Trevor's name, her own personal mantra to herself, almost praying to him, promising him that she will get through this. She loves him; loves his temper and his passion, she loves the way in which he could be rough with her yet gentle at the same time, she loves how he loved her like the world may end, loves the way he would say her name, the way in which he made her feel like she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon, she loves him because despite his frequent erratic behaviour he kept her grounded and sane. She loves him because standing beside him, six feet three and one hundred and eighty pounds of hardened muscle, she felt safe, untouchable, knowing that he would protect her with his life and she prays to him to keep her safe now as he had once done.

The rope gives some more and, feeling with her hands she discovers that she is almost there, only a few more quick slices with the glass and she will be freed, able to defend herself if need be and she cuts feverishly, ignoring the sharp pain when the glass slips beneath her fingers, slick with fresh blood which acts as a lubricant and slices into her calf.

From somewhere within the house she hears a door slam, the sound of it crashing against the wall reverberating throughout the house and she pauses momentarily listening to the rush of footsteps accompanied by the creak of ageing floorboards and panic once more rears its ugly head, rising up inside of her and she feels her chest beginning to tighten in fear. Anxiously, she begins to feel on the floor for the glass that has slipped from her fingers.

A shadow obscures the thin line of light beneath the door and when she hears the bolt slide out of the lock she begins to sweat, her entire body becomes cool and clammy as she stills, not out of fear, but out of anger with herself for not having freed herself; she has no way at all of defending herself, not without the use of her legs. Her legs bound, she is much too clumsy, too unstable, to put up much of a fight.

The light flickers on emitting a low hum, and, momentarily blinded, she blinks rapidly in order to clear her vision as quickly as possible, and the door opens slamming closed as quickly as it had opened. There is a lock on this side of the door, one that is small and it would take little force to get through the door if one so wished to, nevertheless, he slides the bolt into place and advances upon her. A shotgun hangs by his side, the end of the barrel almost trailing on the floor, and although it is not trained on her and does not present any threat, Kathy watches it carefully.

Nicholas stands in front of her; he is shirtless, dressed in tan slacks and dark shoes that have been polished to within an inch of their life. Her own shoes are strewn across the small room, the worn soles from years of wear exposed. His hair is dishevelled and she assumes that he has been woken abruptly.

He looks at the mirror, the glass in the sink and after a long moment his eyes lock onto the bloodied shard of glass almost the size of her hands laying by her feet and his eyes narrow in anger.

"I told you not to try anything. You little bitch," he tells her, scolding her as though she is a disobedient who must be taught a lesson and she continues to watch the gun waiting for him to raise it.

"Fuck you, Nick," Kathryn spits. They watch one another, the room quiet but for their breathing, but the quiet is disrupted by a gunshot ringing out within the house and both siblings flinch. Footsteps pound throughout the house accompanied by muffled shouts.

"Apparently someone cares about you," he tells her, his voice low. It has been almost fourteen years since she last saw him, not that when they lived at home they saw much of one another at all, yet she immediately detects the fear in his voice. "Who would have thought?"

"You're hiding," she says incredulously and shakes her head. "You fucking coward. Go out there like a man and get what you deserve." He stares down at her, his eyes almost black, and raises the gun so quickly that she does not have time to react. He slams the butt down atop her head with enough force for her to see a sudden eruption of light, and she slumps backwards, falling heavily against the bath, her head lolling uncertainly.

He strides towards her, the gun trailing noisily against the tile, a scraping sound that sends an involuntary shiver coursing through her body, and grabs her by the shoulders, pulling her to her feet forcefully. In too much pain to think about anything or to react, she does not resist allowing him to pull her around much like a doll. He grabs her chin between his fingers, pulling her head down until she is eyelevel with him and whispers, "Don't you dare pass out. I want you to be aware of every single thing that happens to you. Do you understand me?" His voice is quiet, his tone almost soothing and her neck aches when he moves her head up and down in a frenzied nod

Her eyes trail towards the door, listening to the gunshots, the sound of various items breaking and furniture being kicked over and his grip on her tightens. "Look at me, Kathryn."

Defiant, she closes her eyes, squeezing them tightly shut and in her mind she sees Trevor. She sees his scars, brilliant white lines that adorn his face and his arms, angry marks that portray his life; his abusive childhood, the years in prison, his life of crime. She sees the cuts on his knuckles, the fingers swollen and bruised, and she is struck by the memory of kissing his fresh cuts, of kissing his innumerable scars when they lay in bed together, to cure his pain.

"I said look at me!" He roughly shakes her and her eyes spring open, light blue and bloodshot.

"Trevor," she whispers and she is shaken once more.

"No, not Trevor," he snaps his voice filled with rage and he removes his hand from her face. Her vision blurs and her head is spinning but she remains on her feet. "Nicholas. Come on Kathryn, get it together, I want you to know who's doing this to you."

She straightens, at over five feet eleven she stands a full head taller than him, easily dwarfing him, and he is taken by surprise when she rears her head back and slams it down into his. They both stagger backward from the blow and she presses her hands against the wall in order to remain upright, smearing blood on the tiles, but the impact has stunned him and he reels backwards losing his balance and crashing to the floor. The shotgun tumbles from his hand and instantly Kathryn drops to her knees and reaches for it, leaning over him to grab it.

In her anger, her sheer desperation, she has not thought her move through and whilst leaning over her brother she is shocked when he grabs her by the throat with both hands. His hands are large and they easily wrap around her neck; she struggles against him, her long fingernails digging into his hands drawing blood but he does not relent, he does not lesson his grip, but rather he increases the pressure, his hands pressing on her wind pipe, their eyes locked as she struggles to breathe beneath his grip.

"How does it feel?" he asks. He must see something in her eyes, some level of recognition as he laughs and continues, "I know what you did to Ma. I had her body exhumed, and another autopsy was conducted. Her hyoid bone was fractured; do you know what causes that, Kathryn? Strangulation."

She stares at him and pushes her legs apart, paying no heed to the pain in her ankles as the rope digs into her skin and a sudden rush of relief courses throughout her when she feels the rope snap. Freed, she brings up her knee and slams it into his side, into his ribs, feeling the bones bend forcing him to loosen his grip considerably allowing her to peel his hands from her neck and she grabs the gun.

The shotgun is large and it feels clumsy in her hands, but she trains it on him, standing over him relishing the fear in his eyes as he looks into the barrel knowing that his life is in her shaking hands. Trevor had taught her to shoot, taking her to the shooting range every Sunday claiming that it was something she must learn, and she had been an excellent shot, hitting every target, whether stationary or moving, but it has been nine years since she last fired a gun or even held one and she doubts herself.

Something hits against the door, something large and of considerable weight and the younger man cowers to which she almost laughs. Another hit and the wood splinters as the door bursts open sending a spray of wood chunks into the room and Kathy's heart almost skips a beat at the sight before her.

"There you are! Now, is that any way to treat your guests?" he exclaims advancing on the dark-haired man his head lowered and his eyes narrowed into slits. Her brother pushes himself back against the wall into the narrow space between the toilet and the sink and Kathy follows him with her gun, holding it tight against her shoulder, her left index finger resting on the trigger.

Her husband grabs her brother and, with minimal effort he drags him out from his hiding place, emitting a deep rumbling laugh at the younger man's terror. He leans down, his large hands on his thighs as he observes him revelling in his fear. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Shh." Trevor presses a finger to his lips in an exaggerated manner. "I ain't gonna hurt you, Nicky Nutjob. Fuck, we're family!"

"Y-you're not?" Nick stumbles over his words and Kathryn steps back, lowering the gun somewhat, her eyes now firmly fixed on Trevor. She almost feels sorry for her sibling; the man who had kidnapped her, beat her, fantasised eagerly over exacting his revenge on she and Trevor had given up just like that.

"C'mon, get up. We'll grab a beer, huh? Pick up some hookers; get this sick little party _really_ goin'!" He extends his hand to Nick who takes it gratefully, elated with relief, and although she does not miss the glint in Trevor's eye, when he grabs his head and slams his face into the rim of the sink she starts, almost dropping the gun when she hears the sickening sound of bone splintering.

He releases him and he falls to the floor, landing heavily on his side with Trevor standing over him. "That's my _wife_! You think you can take _my_ wife in _my _county? This is Trevor Philips country!" he exclaims, emphasising his point by kicking him furiously and repeatedly.

"When _I _kidnap a girl and lock her in my house, it's usually because I asked to fuck her and she said no." He pauses to kick him again, the impact causing his head to swing back and hit against the base of the sink to which her brother emits a muffled cry. "Tell me, Nicky, you wanna fuck yer sister? That's fuckin' sick."

When he does not receive a reply he frowns and reaches for the gun tucked into the waistband of his ill-fitting jeans. "Answer me, you fuck!"

"Fuck you," the younger man mutters, whimpering as he tries to pull himself to his feet, his face a bloody mess and Trevor laughs.

"Me? I could use a good fuck, boy. C'mere, you wanna fuck, let's go," he tells him as he grabs him by the throat and pulls him to his feet, exaggeratedly thrusting his hips as he does so, rather enjoying their brawl, and the other man begins to sob, sudden uncontrollable spasms that take over his entire body, leaving him a quivering mess, positively terrified of the older man, and rightly so.

"Please, don't hurt me. It was a joke, I just, I-"

Trevor's grip remains on his throat, almost a foot taller he stoops, his back arching as he tells him, "You know what's a joke, cowboy? When I'm done with you there'll be nothin' left for your family to mourn over. Now _that's _a good fuckin' joke. Came up with it right there."

"Trevor," Kathy says quietly and he glances at her, almost doing a double take at the pathetic sight of her. His eyes fall from her face to her chest and she realises that during their struggle her blouse had torn and now hangs open exposing one of her breasts, and sheepishly she pulls her blouse over. The weight of the gun supported by only one hand causes her arm to drop and the tip of the gun smacks against the floor.

"That's my _wife_," he says again, his voice a low growl and he punches him with such force that he tumbles clumsily to the floor. He kicks him repeatedly, his face red, shouting out expletives and Kathy shrinks back when a spot of her brother's blood lands mere inches in front of her.

"Fuckin' cunt. Cunt, cunt, cunt, _cunt_! Speak to me, ya fuck!" He kicks him again and the body, now limp, does not move and he removes his gun from his jeans and aims.

Kathryn hears another set of footsteps and she looks towards the door as another man appears in the doorway. He is not particularly tall but he is well built, muscular, with dark skin and closely cut black hair. "The house is clear, we got all of them," he addresses Trevor with an accent that she recognises clearly, it is one that she has become accustomed to with living in the inner city projects.

Trevor grunts by way of response and begins to fire; he fires numerous shots into her brother's head, sending up a spray of blood, bone and grey matter into the air. The walls are soaked with his remains and she grimaces when something large and wet hits her face, too shocked to move.

Trevor continues to shoot; shouting out innumerable expletives until when he presses the trigger the gun ceases firing and merely emits a loud click and when he steps back, his face is unreadable. As suddenly as he had stopped he is on him again, kicking the lifeless body, chastising him for his actions towards Kathryn until his companion pulls him back.

"Hey, he's dead, man." He looks at Kathy standing in the corner, one hand holding her blouse closed whilst the other is at her side her knuckles turning white from the effort of clutching the shotgun. "You a'right?" She nods and rushes to Trevor. Frightened, emotional, she is a wreck, and she reaches out to him, dropping the gun by her feet.

"Trevor," she whispers, wanting to touch him, to trace his scars with her fingers and wipe the blood from his hands and face. She wraps her arms around his waist, burying her face into his chest and with one final kick he noisily spits at the body, blood streaming out of it, and pats her back unsurely his other arm sliding around her shoulders.


	10. Beehive

Kathryn listens to Weazel News as she brushes the dog, In the two weeks since the incident in Paleto Bay it has become somewhat of a habit for her, the radio playing softly in the background while she goes about her day waiting and hoping for some new sliver of information regarding what had taken place that morning, the police enquiry and the potential suspects, details of her brother's brutal murder, however, as of yet she has heard little, only a brief mention the following day crammed in amongst the numerous adverts and celebrity gossip which had divulged little information. She cannot say why she does it, she is well aware of what had happened, she witnessed it, she wiped her own blood coupled with that of her sibling's from her face, she cried in Trevor's arms as he led her out of the house and to his truck roughly covering her eyes so as not to allow her to see the path of destruction throughout the house.

In these past two weeks she has not slept well, waking up in the middle of the night seeing Trevor in her mind's eye. She sees him clearly, dressed in torn dirty jeans, scuffed steel-toe capped boots, a checked shirt tucked unevenly into the waistband of his jeans, the scars standing out on his face as his escalating anger turned his face an unhealthy shade of red, the fresh blood stains on his clothes, the blood and dirt caked beneath his fingernails. She sees and hears every punch, each crunch of bone splintering from the sheer force of the blows, every gunshot. She remembers the way in which his arms flex to control the violent kickback of the gun, the shell casings strewn across the room, the metallic ringing they make as they fall and roll across the floor.

She hears his voice, a shout rising to a shriek, a bitter combination of emotion, strained, the hollow echo that follows immediately after. She sees his chest rising and falling, hears his loud breathing in the quiet of the room, remembers his nonchalant shrug as he picks a piece of flesh from his shirt and tosses it onto the floor amongst the growing pool of blood. She hears him telling her that she is alright, that someone will take care of her, feels the scratch of his stubble on her forehead, her skin sick with sweat, as he rests his head atop hers, recalls the way in which his grip tightened around her as her body shuddered with barely contained sobs.

She remembers the soft feeling of the blanket he had tossed over her after he had put her into the front seat and her wrinkling her nose at the suspicious smells and stains but she did not complain and proceeded to watch it blow in the wind as they drove hastily back to the city. He did not speak on their journey, she either gazing out of the window absently or pretending to sleep and he painstakingly changing radio stations to find something that was to his liking; angry, loud music with too much bass and bitter scratchy vocals, his choice of music greatly reminded her of their first meeting fourteen years previous in some dingy backstreet bar in Ludendorff the name of which she cannot recall.

She is reminded of feeling her heart breaking when he stopped in the Hills outside of an expensive white-washed house, hears him telling her that she will be staying with Franklin and that she is not to return to her apartment. She regrets having said nothing as they waited quietly in the driveway for the younger man to pull up behind them and lead her into the house.

Franklin's house reminds her of her childhood home in a way; a large, exquisitely decorated home, one in which no amount of expensive décor and flashy toys can hope to ease the lonely feeling that engulfs it. Franklin himself is small, perhaps four inches less than she, muscular, and although he is often quiet this does not detract from his friendliness, and on several occasions when she cannot sleep she has found him in the living room nursing a glass of scotch and watching the city lights flicker, and together they have sat up until the early hours of the morning discussing their past, their previous loves and their hopes for the future. She is immensely grateful to him, he has welcomed her into his home, kept her safe at Trevor's command, and he has brought her cat to her.

The cat lies beside her on her back purring loudly at nothing in particular, watching her through curious wide jade eyes as she brushes Franklin's Rottweiler, a large muscular animal that seems to relish the attention she has thrown upon it. Despite the age old difference between cats and dogs the cat has flourished in her new environment, the two animals spending every waking moment together, even sleeping with one another curled up side by side at the back of the house.

During the day she spends much of her time alone, sitting on the balcony sipping beer and smoking cigarettes in the sunshine or swimming in the pool as Franklin is often gone for long periods leaving in the early hours of the morning and not returning until dusk. He does not divulge any information when she presses him, but when she opens the laundry basket she does not miss the small blood stains on his clothing or the smell of gun powder. At this she can only shake her head in disbelief, wondering why a young man, he can only be in his mid-twenties surely, would wish to be mixed up with someone like Michael or Trevor.

"You don't have to do that," he tells her closing the door quietly behind him and she jumps at the voice turning to face him. He raises his hands and approaches her slowly. "Hey, man, I didn't mean to scare you."

"That's okay," she replies, "And he likes it. Don't you, Chop?" A long pause follows during which the two rather unlikely housemates stare at one another before Kathy clears her throat. "Listen, Frank, I love being here and all and I'm really grateful for you putting me up, but I think it's about time I was on my way."

He frowns and takes a seat on the couch gesturing for her to join him and she does as she is asked sitting opposite him. She moves without difficulty now which is certainly a welcome relief. The butterfly stitches have now been removed from her forehead and cheek, and the bruises on her face have faded from black to a dirty yellow that she is able to hide with the aid of make-up. The stitches on her fingers have also been removed leaving behind deep angry red scars that she doubts will ever fade. Her nose, not broken thankfully, is still sensitive, but the pain has eased considerably and she does not feel pain when she pulls a shirt over her head or when she rolls over in bed.

She crosses one leg over the other; she is wearing a dress, a gift from Franklin to lift her spirits in the immediate aftermath and it is beautiful, brilliant red and strapless it is perhaps the only item of clothing that fits her well, clinging to her body like a second skin rather than hanging off her awkwardly. It exposes her long slender legs and she catches him looking at the wide scabs on her ankles where the rope has worn through the skin.

"You've been really good to me, but I just want to move on with my life. I can't stay cooped up in here forever, I'll drive myself crazy," she admits and he nods in understanding.

"You're going to Trevor, ain't you?"

Kathryn nods. "Yes. I'm really sorry to spring this on you like this," she says and he waves his hand dismissing her apology good naturedly. She continues, "I'm going to visit him and we'll see how things go from there. I thought he would have visited by now."

Franklin detects the note of sadness in her voice immediately. "You know how he is, Kat. Crazy motherfucker ain't no good wit' emotion, but he loves you," he tells her and she feels her heart begin to buzz like a beehive. He continues, "All I hear when we out is 'Man, that girl is _fine_, not as fine as Kathy, did I ever tell you 'bout her?' I thought you was some girlfriend he was all hung up on, not his damn wife. I mean _damn_."

"He doesn't seem like the marriage type, does he?" she says and he laughs in agreement. Truthfully, neither of them was, and their marriage to one another had been based solely on a bet with one another, each daring the other to go that little bit further, until it reached the point where Trevor had told her that she could never commit, that she was too frightened by the idea. On vacation in Las Venturas, she had responded by telling him that she would prove she was not afraid by 'marrying the shit out of him'. Trevor always had had a rather strange way of going about things, and proposing to his girlfriend in the guise of a dare was certainly the stranger of his methods.

"Listen," she tells him, "I'm going to go and call a taxi and then I'll get out of your hair, you could probably do with the space." She leans forward to pick up her cell phone, an ageing model that has a black and white display and no camera, but it does the job, from the coffee table but he stops her.

"Naw, Kat, you ain't getting' no taxi. I'll drive you. Make sure you get there safe."

She smiles and stands. "You don't have to do that, Franklin; I'll be fine on my own." She runs her hands through her hair enjoying the feeling; one of Franklin's female friends had dropped by and had cut her hair one evening taking several inches off and it now hangs to her breasts in sleek curls. Brushing her hair has become less of a chore, in fact she almost enjoys it now that she no longer must battle with the knots and tangles that formed over a period of several months.

Franklin stands also and he proceeds towards the door, snatching his keys from a dark glass bowl in the centre of a narrow table in the foyer. "It ain't optional. When T tells you to do somethin', you do it, or you better hope you got a good damn excuse. What 'bout your cat?"

Now standing beside him gathering her purse from the table she glances back at the cat who is curled up against chop, her eyes closed, blissfully happy and she shakes her head. "Look after Mary for me, will you? She seems happy here," she tells him and for a brief moment she almost feels guilty at the prospect of leaving her pet behind.

Franklin sighs and he opens the door allowing Kathy to go first. "A'ight, but you owe me one."

The journey from the Hills into the city is a quiet one, the silence broken only once when Franklin asks if she would like to drop by her apartment and pick up some of her things. Upon arriving at his home she had sent him to her studio apartment to pick up her cat and her few possessions, these being a favourite book, her extensive make-up collection and a small box containing memories from her past. She and Trevor had started the box in their first year of marriage and it contains mementos from their time spent together, such as ticket stubs, pamphlets from places they have visited and photographs; it means more to her than anything she could ever buy.

"Nah, I'm good. Got everything I need right here," she replies and pats the large purse sitting on her lap.

She falls quiet immediately after and the closer they become to the projects the more nervous Kathryn becomes, her body almost vibrating with tension from the idea of seeing Trevor again and the overwhelming worry that this meeting will play out similarly to their last. She made a promise, she tells herself as Franklin slows and pulls up on a quiet street. The area is somewhat rundown, not at all like where she has been living, but it is certainly a less sought after section of the exclusive area and as she glances around the darkened street her eyes fall on Trevor's red truck, a dirty pickup that has been corroded with rust and possibly stolen judging by the woman's name on the plates.

"This is it," she says quietly, more to herself than to Franklin and he pats her arm reassuringly.

"If you want to come back it's fine. Chop really likes you," he tells her and she cannot help but to laugh as she reaches in her purse and removes a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. She slips one cigarette out of the packet and flicks the lighter, inhaling deeply drawing the smoke into her lungs and holding it there for some time before loudly exhaling.

"You want me to stay with you? I'm old enough to be your Ma, boy," she tells him with a smile. "Look, I appreciate the thought and thank you for looking out for me but this is something I have to do." She opens the door and climbs out of the car, pausing to lean back in saying, "You're a good kid."

Taking a deep breath she gathers her composure and begins to slowly ascend the stairs, tossing her cigarette over the edge of the railing when she reaches the door. She hears voices, laughter, a woman's voice, and she pauses momentarily before knocking on the door.

**A/N: This isn't the best chapter or the best writing, it's just a litle filler as I wanted to cover a little more of what happened in Paleto Bay. The next chapter should be up later tonight :)**


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